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LORDS    AND    LOVERS 
AND    OTHER    DRAMAS 


LORDS    AND    LOVERS 

AND 

OTHER    DRAMAS 

BY 
OLIVE    TILFORD    DARGAN 


NEW    YORK 
CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S    SONS 

1906 


LORDS    AND    LOVERS 
PART  I 


CHARACTERS    OF    THE    PLAY 

HENRY  III,  King  of  England 

EARL  OF  ALBEMARLE 

EARL  OF  PEMBROKE 

RICHFORD,  son  to  Pembroke,  afterwards  Earl 

ARCHBISHOP  OF  CANTERBURY 

BISHOP  OF  WINCHESTER 

CARDINAL  GUALO 

HUBERT  DE  BURGH,  afterwards  Earl  of  Kent 

SIR  ROLAND  DE  BORN 

STEPHEN  GODFREY,  a  soldier 

GREGORY,  a  captain 

BALDUR,  GODRIC,  soldiers 

ORSON,  a  servant 

GERSA,  an  officer  under  De  Burgh 

FRIAR  SEBASTIAN 

LORD  GOLY 

LORD  DE  VERB 

MARGARET,  a  Scottish  princess 

ELEANOR,  Countess  of  Albemarle,  wife  of  Albemarle 

GLAIA,  ward  of  De  Burgh 

ELDRA,  servant  to  Glaia 

Lords  and  ladies  of  the  court,  bishops,  barons,  priests,  citizens,  soldiers,  &c. 

TIME:    13th  Century 
SCENE:  England 


OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY 

OF 

F 


ACT   I 

SCENE  1.   Room  in  the  earl  of  Pembroke's  castle.     Pem 
broke  in  bed.     Richford  and  Albemarle  attending. 

Pern.  The  king  has  come  ? 

Alb.  He  waits  upon  your  grace 

As  a  good  servant;  with  demeanor  speaks 
True  sorrow  you  are  brought  so  low. 

Pern.  [Stoutly]  Ha!     Low? 

Alb.  Sir,  but  in  body.     Pembroke's  mounting  mind 
Can  never  be  struck  down. 

Pern.  He's  sad,  you  say  ? 

Alb.  In  tears,  your  grace.     He  weeps  more  like  a  son 
Than  sovereign. 

Pern.  A  son !    Where  is  the  son 

Would  weep  for  Pembroke  ? 

Rich.  Here,  my  dearest  father! 
Here  are  the  tears  would  water  thy  affliction 
Till  it  be  washed  from  thy  endangered  body. 
Here  is  the  heart  would  give  its  younger  blood 
To  make  thine  leap  with  health.     Without  you,  sir, 
I  am  no  more  than  is  the  gaudy  bloom 
Of  some  stout  tree  the  axe  has  brought  to  ground. 
O,  wilt  forgive  the  many  pains  I've  cost  thee  ? 

Pern.  First  touch  my  hand  and  swear  by  highest  God 
That  you  will  serve  the  king. 

Rich.  O,  slight  condition! 

I  take  this  noble  hand  that  ne'er  was  raised 

3 


4  LORDS    AND    LOVERS 

'Gainst  country,  throne  or  God,  and  by  that  God, 
I  vow  to  serve  the  king. 

Pern.  For  the  last  time 

I'll  trust  and  pardon  you.     If  you  make  black 
Your  soul  with  violation  of  this  oath, 
I,  safe  beyond  the  stars,  shall  know  it  not, 
Nor  die  again  to  think  on  't.     Men,  weep  not 
That  ye  lack  sons,  but  weep  when  your  wives  bear  them ! 

Alb.  I'll  vouch  for  him,  your  grace. 

Pern.  Thanks,  Albemarle. 

Rich.  Will  you,  my  kindest  father,  say  a  word 
To  bring  me  to  the  graces  of  the  king? 

Pern.  Ay,  son. 

Rich.  Now,  sir? 

Pern.  Nay,  I'm  not  dying  yet, 

And  wish  to  keep  my  last  words  for  his  ears. 
There's  holy  magic  in  the  passing  tongue 
That  stamps  its  truth  unrasurable.     So 
Would  I  grave  Henry's  heart. 

Rich.  But,  sir- 

Pern.  I'll  wait 

My  hour.     Who  comes  with  him? 

Alb.  The  legate,  Gualo, 

To-day  arrived  from  Rome. 

Pern.  And  I  not  told? 

Already  I  am  dead.     These  ears,  that  kings 
Engaged,  are  now  contracted  to  the  worm 
Permits  no  forfeiture.     Well,  well,  his  message? 

Alb.  The  cardinal  assures  us  that  the  pope 
Will  cast  his  power  with  Henry.     Though  he  loves 
This  praying  Louis,  well  he  knows  our  right. 

Pern.  The  pope  our  friend?     I  thank  thee,  Heaven! 
England,  take  up  thy  heart !     Thou  yet  mayst  hope ! 
[Enter  bishop  of  Winchester] 

Win.  God  save  great  Pembroke ! 


LORDS    AND    LOVERS 

Pern.  He  alone  can  do  it. 

Lord  Albemarle,  and  my  new-graced  son, 
Will  't  please  you  walk  within? 

Alb.  We  are  your  servants. 

[Exeunt  Richford  and  Albemarle,  left] 

Pern.  Now,  Winchester? 

Win.  You  sent  for  me,  your  grace. 

I  have  made  haste. 

Pern.  Ay,  you'd  trot  fast  enough 

To  see  me  die. 

Win.  Nay,  sir,  I  hope  you've  called 
Me  to  your  service. 

Pern.  So  I  have,  my  lord. 

A  task  unfinished  I  must  leave  to  you. 
Here  is  the  key  to  yonder  cabinet. 
Pray  you  unlock  it  ...  and  take  out  the  packet 
Your  eye's  now  on. 

Win.  This,  sir? 

Pern.  Ay,  that  is  it. 

'Twas  Henry  Second,  grandsire  of  this  Henry, 
Gave  me  that  packet.     Sir,  you  know  the  tale 
Of  princess  Adelais  who  journeyed  here 
As  the  betrothed  of  Richard,  Henry's  son. 
Alack,  she  never  was  his  bride.     Some  say 
That  Henry  loved  her  ...  I  know  not  .  .  .  but  she 
Returned  to  France,  her  reason  wandering. 
"If  she  recover,"  said  the  king  to  me, 
"Give  her  this  packet;   should  she  die,  break  seal 
And  learn  what  you  shall  do."     She  did  not  die, 
Nor  can  I  say  she  lives,  so  sad  her  state. 
Her  age  was  bare  fifteen  when  she  left  England, 
Her  face  a  lily  and  her  eyes  a  flood ; 
She  now  must  be  midway  her  fifth  decade, 
A  time,  I've  heard,  when  subtle  changes  work 
Within  the  mind.     A  beauteous  soul !     O  God, 


6  LORDS    AND    LOVERS 

Restore  her  now,  or  lift  her  e'en  to  thee! 

...  Take  you  the  packet,  and  the  king's  command. 

But  first  your  oath.     Deceit  has  sapped  my  faith 

So  oft  I  could  believe  the  devil  himself 

Wears  gown  and  mitre.     Peter  des  Roches,  will  you 

Be  true? 

Win.  I  swear  by  Heaven. 

Pern.  That  is  done, 

As  well  as  't  can  be  done.     Call  in  my  son 
And  Albemarle. 

Win.  My  lords! 

[Re-enter  Richford  and  Albemarle] 

Pern.  Now  let  us  talk 

Of  England.     O,  this  fleet,  this  fleet,  rigged  out 
By  warlike  Constance  in  monk  Louis'  name ! 
I  see  it  nearing  now,  leaping  the  waves, 
On,  on,  and  none  to  meet  it!     Cowards  all. 
What  do  ye  here,  ye  three,  loitering  about 
A  sick  man's  bed?     A  man  almost  a  corpse. 
I  would  not  have  a  servant  waste  himself 
To  give  me  drink  while  England  needs  his  sword. 

Rich.  My  father  lord,  we  have  our  men  abroad 
Rousing  the  country  for  a  stout  defence. 
To  meet  the  French  with  our  poor  ships  were  madness; 
But  let  them  land  we'll  give  them  such  a  rap 

Pern.  What?  Land  your  enemy?  O,  fools  and  cowards! 
.  .  .  I've  given  my  life  for  England.     Now  you'll  cast 
My  heart-dear  bargain  into  Louis'  hand 
As  'twere  a  snood  slipped  from  an  easy  maid. 
Fool  man !  to  puff  his  days  out  jousting  Fate, 
Who  waits  but  his  bare  death  to  start  her  mock 
Of  horrid  pleasantries.     Then  does  she  make 
Dice  of  the  miser's  bones,  carousal  cups 
Of  the  ascetic's  skull,  a  hangman's  scoff 
Of  clerics'  prayer-fed  sons;  and  proudest  sires, 


LORDS    AND    LOVERS  7 

Who  sentried  their  blue  blood,  peer  back  through  dust 

To  see  all  Babylon  pour  to  their  line. 

And  now  she'll  bid  my  war-ghost  eyes  behold 

The  land  held  with  my  life  become  a  field 

For  foes  at  holiday ! 

Win.  Compose  yourself,  your  grace. 

Pern.         Gualo  has  come,  but  where  is  he  will  set 
This  power  its  task,  and  play  it  for  this  isle? 
I  can  not  say  that  wisdom  dies  with  me, 
But  I  could  wish  more  proof  of  sager  mind 
Than  e'er  I've  had  from  this  small  audience. 
Lord  Bishop,  you  are  left  custodian 
Of  Henry's  ripening  youth. 

Win.  Nor  shall  I  fail 

To  be  your  worthy  heir  in  this  high  duty, 
For  still  I  shall  consult  with  your  great  spirit, 
Praying  your  ghost  be  mover  of  my  deeds. 

Pern.  I've  spoken  to  the  king.     He'll  give  you  love 
For  love.     But  who  shall  be  lord  chancellor? 
There's  little  choice.     And  yet  there's  one,  De  Burgh, 
If  camp  and  field  could  spare  him 

Alb.  Sir,  a  man 

No  older  than  our  sons? 

Pern.                              By  your  good  leave, 
Age  is  no  patent  to  respect  and  place 
If  virtue  go  not  with  it.     Whitened  hairs 
Make  honor  radiant,  but  vice  thereby 
Is  viler  still.     Ay,  there  are  some 

Rich.  Peace,  father, 

And  save  thy  strength  for  us. 

Pern.  Ah,  son,  I've  been 

A  careless  holder  all  my  life,  and  still 
With  my  last  hour  play  spendthrift.     Well,  here  be 
Three  friends  of  England — Gualo  makes  a  fourth — 
And  trusting  you  I  ease  my  bones  to  death. 
[Enter  attendant  with  a  letter,  which  he  gives  to  Pembroke} 


8  LORDS    AND    LOVERS 

Pern.  [After  reading]  De  Burgh !     O  gallant  soul ! 

Now  am  I  young! 

With  forty  ships  he'll  meet  the  fleet  of  France! 
I  live  again,  for  courage  is  not  dead! 
[Sinking]  Nay — help — ah,  I  am  gone.     I'll  hasten  on 
And  plead  in  Heaven  for  his  victory. 

[Seems  to  die] 

Alb.  Ah  ...  dead? 

Rich.  In  truth. 

Win.  I'll  go  and  tell  the  king. 

[Aside,  going]  My  joyful  tears  he  will  translate  to  grief, 
And  think  I  weep  a  friend's  death,  not  a  foe's 
Whose  only  act  of  friendship  was  to  die.     [.Erf] 

Alb.  How  now,  my  lord  ?     Does  your  good  purpose  hold  ? 

Rich.  It  has  the  falling  sickness,  Albemarle, 
And  now  lies  low  as  earth. 

Alb.  Then  set  thy  foot 

Upon  it  that  it  rise  no  more. 

Rich.  Tis  done. 

Alb.  What  fools  are  they  who  think  that  dying  men 
Speak  oracles  to  pivot  action  on, 
When  death's  decay  so  blurs  each  fading  sense 
They  know  but  darkly  of  the  world  about, 
And  of  realities  all  plain  to  us 
Build  visions  substanceless  to  gull  our  faith. 
Grant  that  they  do  take  note  of  things  unseen, 
'Tis  with  their  faces  to  another  world, 
And  what  they  speak  is  strange  and  ill  advice 
To  us  whose  work  is  still  'mong  men  of  earth. 

Rich.  You  need  not  clear  your  way  to  me.     I've  not 
A  scruple  in  my  soul  would  trip  a  gnat. 
Speak  out  your  heart. 

Alb.  You  are  great  Pembroke  now. 

But  Richford  took  an  oath  to  serve  the  king. 

Rich.  And  he — is  Louis. 


LORDS    AND    LOVERS  9 

Alb.  Till  we  find  hour  fit 

To  cast  his  yoke  and  take  a  sovereign 
Of  our  election. 

Rich.  Royal  Albemarle! 

Alb.  Here  stand  we  then.     De  Burgh  we  count  as  dead. 
Le  Moine  has  orders  to  strike  off  his  head 
Soon  as  he's  taken.     Now  we  get  the  king 
To  Dover  fort,  on  pretence  to  defend  it. 
There  the  besieging  French  will  take  him  prisoner, 
And  ship  him  straight  to  Calais — or  to  Heaven. 

Pern.  [Half  rising]    Devils!  dogs!  beasts! 

Now  these  devoted  bones 
Will  never  lie  at  peace  in  English  earth. 
My  country7!     Must  the  foreign  foot  be  set 
Once  more  upon  thy  neck,  and  thine  own  sons 
Pour  sulphur  to  thy  wounds?     The  king!  the  king! 
What,  vipers,  do  you  hear?     Call  in  the  king! 

Alb.   We  must  not,  sir. 

Pern.  Ho,  here!     The  king! 

[Rises  from  bed,  starts  forward  and  falls  back  speechless. 
Enter  Henry,  Gualo,  Winchester,  and  attendants. 
Albemarle  and  Richford  stand  together.  Pembroke 
dies  pointing  to  them  and  gazing  at  the  king] 

Hen.  My  lords,  what  does  this  mean? 

Alb.  This  noble  man 

Wished  much  to  say  a  word  of  grace  for  me 
And  his  forgiven  son.     Alas,  black  death 
Has  stolen  the  balm  that  might  have  eased  our  way 
Into  your  heart. 

Hen.  Fear  not,  my  lords.     I'll  trust  you, 
Even  as  he  wished.     [Kneels  by  bed] 

O,  Pembroke,  couldst  thou  leave  me? 

[Curtain] 


10  LORDS    AND    LOVERS 

SCENE  2.     Before  Dover  castle.     Night.     Hubert  de  Burgh 
walking  and  listening. 

Hub.  But  forty  ships!     But  forty  slit-sailed  drabs 
Of  storm  and  watery  danger  to  meet  all  France 
Fresh- winged  upon  the  sea!     And  yet  no  word 
Nor  stir  of  help.     Methinks  were  I  the  king, 
Or  Pembroke  with  his  power  in  my  mouth, 
Each  English  road  should  be  ablaze  to-night 
With  swift  flint-striking  hoofs.     Now  to  our  shore 
Puffs  up  the  wave  may  prove  oblivion's  maw, 
And  drink  these  Dover  cliffs  as  they  were  sands, 
Yet  England  sleeps,  with  one  lone  heart  at  watch. 

[Sound  of  horse  approaching]     Nay,  two,  for  Roland 

comes. 
[Enter  Roland  de  Born,  dismounted] 

Rol.  You,  Hubert? 

Hub.  Ay. 

You  bring  no  aid? 

Rol.  The  king  is  powerless. 

Pembroke  is  dead.     The  barons  to  covert  slink, 
Saying  their  loyalty  binds  them  to  fight 
No  farther  than  the  shore.     The  bishops  smirk 
Beneath  their  mitres,  roll  their  eyes  and  cry 
"  God  and  great  Rome,  deliver  us!"  which  means 
Deliver  us  to  Louis,  king  of  monks 
And  darling  of  the  pope. 

Hub.  And  Albemarle? 

Rol.  Stands  by  the  king,  and  ready  with  his  men 
To  meet  the  foe  on  land,  but  not  a  soul 
Will  send  to  sea. 

Hub.  Dissembler !     Well  he  knows 

A  victory  on  the  sea  means  England  lost, 
So  many  traitor  hearts  will  league  with  France 
And  sell  their  country  for  one  castle  more. 


LORDS    AND    LOVERS  11 

RoL  What  now?     We've  little  time.     'Tis  almost  day. 
The  moon  is  down,  and  the  raw,  rising  air 
Sucks  in  approaching  light.     What  must  be  done? 

Hub.  The  Cinque  Ports  yield  me  forty  ships. 

With  these 
I'll  meet  Le  Moine. 

RoL  O,  Hubert,  Hubert! 

Hub.  Ay, 

My  men  are  all  aboard  and  waiting  me. 
The  garrison  I  leave  to  you.     Hold  it 
For  honor  and  the  king,  nor  yield  to  save 
So  poor  a  thing  as  my  unlucky  head 
Should  I  go  foul  at  sea.     You'll  be  the  first 
The  victors  will  besiege. 

RoL  My  friend! 

Hub.  Tut,  man, 

The  sea's  a  good  safe  bed.     Come  in.     Some  wine 
Will  take  the  night-chill  from  your  blood.     In,  in! 

[Exeunt.     Curtain] 

SCENE  3.  Within  the  castle.  Stephen,  Baldur,  Godric,  and 
other  soldiers  talking  and  drinking. 

Ste.  [Draining  his  glass]  As  good  liquor  as  ever  wet 
an  oath  since  Noah  was  a  vintner. 

Bal.  Vintner?  An  you  put  him  in  the  trade  the  bishop 
will  have  you  up  for  it. 

Ste.  A  groat  for  your  bishop,  and  that  off  your  grandam's 
eyes!  I'm  no  little  king  Henry  pulled  to  mincemeat  by 
his  bishops  and  barons.  "Ill  take  off  your  mitre."  roars 
he  to  his  bishop.  "  An  you  take  off  my  mitre,  I'll  clap  on  a 
helmet,  by  the  lord,"  says  my  bishop.  "I'll  have  your 
castle!"  shouts  he  to  his  baron.  "An  you  take  my  castle, 
I'll  give  you  London  tower,"  says  master  baron.  Ay, 
and  he  would,  with  the  keeper  thrown  in. 


12  LORDS    AND    LOVERS 

Bal.  And  you  too,  if  you  bite  not  a  bit  from  your 
tongue. 

Ste.  By  the  mass,  I'll  drink  the  king's  ale,  and  I'll  take 
the  king's  money,  but  I'll  fight  for  none  but  Hubert  de 
Burgh! 

God.  And  he  for  the  king — so  you. 

Ste.  I  care  not  how  you  make  it.  De  Burgh  is  my 
master.  I'll  fight  for  him  and  with  him  and  after  him, 
but  I'll  wear  a  red  sword  for  no  bishop  or  baron  or  little 
king  Harry  in  Christendom! 

Bal.  That  may  be  so  with  more  of  us  than  you,  but 
stop  your  mouth  with  good  ale  and  let  words  alone. 

Ste.  And  I'll  go  with  him  to  the  French  court  and  pull 
Louis  off  the  king's  stool! 
[Sings] 

Hear,  boys,  hear!     O,  hear  our  captain  call! 

We'll  away,  boys,  away! 
For  the  love  o'  the  sword  and  the  love  o'  the  money, 

We'll  on  to  the  wars,  my  brave  fellows  all, 

An  they  take  our  Jack  they  will  leave  our  Johnny. 
Away,  boys,  away! 
[Enter  Hubert  and  Roland] 

Hub.  What  cheer,  my  men?  A  fair  morning  for  brave 
hearts.  Can  you  keep  this  castle  for  me  till  I've  had  a 
bout  at  sea? 

A  soldier.  That  we  can,  sir! 

Ste.  I'll  go  with  you,  sir,  by  your  leave.  The  castle  will 
wait  for  us,  I  give  you  my  word,  sir. 

Hub.  You  have  seen  the  bottom  of  your  glass  too  often 
to-night,  Stephen. 

Ste.  God  bless  you,  sir,  there's  where  a  soldier  keeps 
his  oath  to  serve  God  and  his  country,  and  he  can't  look 
it  over  too  often.  Take  me  wi*  you,  sir,  and  I'll  prove 
you  who  lifts  his  glass  the  highest  will  wave  his  sword  the 
longest.  [Kneels]  I  was  your  father's  soldier,  sir,  and 
hope  to  die  yours. 


LORDS    AND    LOVERS  13 

Hub.  Nay,  I  must  leave  trusty  souls  behind  me.  Let 
those  who  love  me  least  fight  under  my  eye,  but  I'll  trust 
my  good  Stephen  around  the  world. 

Ste.  [Rising]  Ay,  sir!  Rain  arrows,  hail  bullets,  we'll 
keep  the  castle  against  all  weather! 

Hub.  [Presenting  Roland]  Then  here's  your  brave  cap 
tain.  Follow  him  now,  and  farewell,  good  fellows — fare 
well,  all! 

[Soldiers  start  out  slowly,  following  Roland] 

An  old  soldier.  [Turning]  But  you'll  come  again,  sir? 

Another.  Ay,  we'll  see  you  back? 

Another.  An  you  come  or  come  not,  I  kiss  my  sword  to 
you,  Hubert  de  Burgh,  the  bravest  knight  in  all  England ! 

Hub.  Why,  my  hearts,  would  you  start  the  liquor  in 
my  eyes?  I  go  where  there's  brine  enough.  Twelve 
hours '  sail  with  fortune  will  bring  me  back — but  if  I  come 
not,  remember  your  king! 

[Exeunt  soldiers] 
They  know  'tis  death — they  know  'tis  death. 

And  what 

Is  that?     We  are  all  guests  in  God's  great  house, 
The  Universe,  and  Death  is  but  his  page 
To  show  us  to  the  chamber  where  we  sleep. 
What  though  the  bed  be  dust,  to  wake  is  sure; 
Not  birds  but  angels  flutter  at  the  eaves 
And  call  us,  singing. 

[Enter  Gersa] 
Gersa,  what  success? 

Ger.  The^bags  are  all  aboard,  sir. 

Hub.  And  portioned  to  every  vessel? 

Ger.  Ay,  sir. 

Hub.  Well  despatched? 

Ger.  The  men  heaved  as  though  the  sacks  held  all  the 
pope's  treasury  and  they  were  to  take  their  pay  out  of  it. 

Hub.  Yet  they  found  the  contents  not  so  heavy  as  gold, 
I  hope. 


14  LORDS    AND    LOVERS 

Ger.  Nor  so  light  as  feathers,  sir. 

Hub.  But  I  pray  they'll  fly  as  well,  and  more  to  the 
purpose.  Aboard  with  you  now.  I'll  not  be  long  behind 
you. 

[Exit  Gersa] 

If  this,  my  careful  stratagem,  should  fail, 
God  help  the  friendless  boy  on  England's  throne! 
Now  Pembroke's  noble  strength  must  e'en  to  coffin; 
And  Isabel  across  the  sea  cares  not, 
But  happier  in  a  gentler  husband's  love 
Takes  little  thought  of  John  of  England's  heir, 
Who  has  his  father's  beauty,  not  his  heart, — 
Just  so  much  of  that  proud  and  guilty  blood 
As  makes  him  kingly  nor  corrupts  his  own. 
.  .  .  But,  come,  my  soul!     Prepare  thee  for  a  world 
Of  rarer  breath,  lest  thou  too  rudely  go 
To  th'  high  conclave  of  spirits.     Father? 
[Enter  friar  Sebastian] 

Fr.  Seb.  Son, 

Art  ready  for  the  sacrament? 

Hub.  I  lack 

A  prayer  of  thine  to  make  me  so.     Give  me 
Such  blessing  as  you'd  lay  upon  me  were 
Death  couchant  for  my  heart,  and  on  my  brow 
Drop  thou  the  holy  unguent  that  doth  fit 
The  body  for  the  last  touch  of  the  soul. 

Fr.  Seb.  My  love  is  to  thy  mortal  frailty  bound, 
And  first  I'll  bless  thee  as  an  earthly  father, 
Praying  that  thou  mayst  smite  thine  enemies. 
[Re-enter  Roland] 

Rol    Your  pardon,  Hubert.     Lady  Albemarle 
Is  here,  and  begs  for  instant  sight  of  you. 

Hub.  My  sister?     I  will  see  her. 

[Exit  Roland]  Wait  you,  father. 
The  world  must  still  intrude  on  Heaven's  affairs. 


LORDS    AND    LOVERS  15 

[Exit  friar  through  large  folding  doors  rear  as  lady  Albe- 
marle  enters  left] 

La.  Alb.  Brother!     Is  Glaia  here? 

Hub.  She  is.     But  why 

This  eagerness? 

La.  Alb.  My  lord  says  that  you  go 
To  meet  the  French.     Is  't  true? 

Hub.  In  one  hour's  time 

I  count  myself  at  sea. 

La.  Alb.  Then  what — O,  where 

Shall  I  hide  Glaia? 

Hub.  Hide?     Is  't  evermore  hide 
That  spotless  maid,  born  but  to  be  a  star 
To  human  eyes? 

La.  Alb.          Nay,  born  to  be  my  shame, 
And  constant,  killing  fear! 

Hub.                               She  will  be  safe. 
Roland  de  Born,  who  now  will  guard  this  castle, 
Holds  Glaia  as  the  heart  in  his  own  body. 
Ay,  she  is  safe, — but  if  the  danger  nears, 
She'll  be  conducted  back  to  Greenot  woods 

La.  Alb.  Roland  de  Born?    What  knows  he? 

Hub.  Only  this, 

That  Glaia,  weary  of  skies,  rests  foot  on  earth. 

La.  Alb.  He  does  not  love  her,  Hubert  ?     Say  not  that ! 

Hub.  Thy  daughter  is  so  honored. 

La.  Alb.  No! 

Hub.  She  has 

His  noble  love,  and  he  my  happy  wish 
That  he  may  make  her  wife. 

La.  Alb.  Then  thou  art  false, 

And  I  look  on  my  grave. 

Hub.  What,  Eleanor? 

La.  Alb.  You  know  my  place,  and  how  I  queen  the 

court, 


16  LORDS    AND    LOVERS 

A  virtuous  mark  that  lords  point  out  to  wives, 
Bidding  them  walk  as  Albemarle's  good  dame. 
Now  let  me  take  my  seat  on  the  lowest  step, 
And  none  too  humble  to  mock  me  going  up. 

Hub.  What  's  this  to  do  with  Roland's  love  for  Glaia? 

La.  Alb.  O,  let  them  scorn!     Tis  nothing!     But   my 

husband — 

Brother,  I  never  dreamed  thy  cruelty 
Would  give  me  to  his  vengeance. 

Hub.  Cruelty? 

La.  Alb.  O,  see  me  at  his  feet — bleeding  and  broken 

Hub.  Not  while  I  wear  a  sword !     But  how  have  I 
Disturbed  thee?  What  have  said?   I've  threshed  my  words, 
But  find  no  devil  in  them. 

La.  Alb.  O,  this  Roland, 

If  he  wive  Glaia  must  ferret  out  my  shame — 
Pry  her  life  ope — who  is  she? — whence  she  came? — 
Till  all  my  secret  blushes  'fore  his  eye. 

Hub.  Though  he  learn  all,  thy  honor  in  his  breast 
Is  safe  as  gem  that  at  earth's  centre  burns. 

La.  Alb.  Nay,  I'll  not  live!    You  know  not  Albemarle! 
He'll  scourge  me  through  the  court  in  rags  to  match 
My  tattered  virtue, — then  the  rack — fire — screws — 
The  Scotch  boot — O,  the  world 's  not  dear  enough 
To  purchase  so.     I  will  not  live ! 

Hub.  I  swear 

That  Roland  cares  so  much  for  Glaia's  birth 
As  to  be  glad  she's  born.     And  at  my  word 
He  will  receive  her  questionless  and  dumb, 
Nor  ever  doubt,  or  weigh  his  promised  faith. 

La.  Alb.  Why,  is  there  such  a  man  in  all  the  world? 

Hub.  He  sees  her  as  one  looks  upon  a  rose, 
And  thinks  not  of  the  mould  that  bore  it,  or  what 
The  tale  that  dews  and  winds  could  tell. 

La.  Alb.  'Tis  strange. 


LORDS    AND    LOVERS  17 

Hub.  As  strange  as  truth. 

La.  Alb.  I  must — I  do  believe  you. 

Hub.  And  bless  his  suit? 

La.  Alb.  Ay,  let  him  wed  her  straight. 

What  waits  he  for?     Let  her  be  lost  in  him, 
This  rare,  this  unmatched  wonder  of  a  man, 
And  I  will  cast  this  shadow  from  my  life, 
Heave  off  the  weight  that  seventeen  years  I  've  borne, 
And  walk  the  lighter,  for  I've  known  what  'tis 
To  step  high  'neath  a  load.     O,  let  them  wed 
As  soon  as  may  be,  Hubert.     Why  not  now? 

Hub.  He  waits  to  win  her  heart. 

La.  Alb.  Cares  he  for  that? 

You  can  command  her,  Hubert. 

Hub.  But  will  not. 

She  is  a  plant  of  Nature's  tenderest  love, 
And  must  be  won  to  bloom  by  softest  airs, 
Else  shall  we  risk  the  gentle  life  and  see 
No  buds  unfold. 

La.  Alb.  I  understand  her  not, 

Nor  try.     She  is  a  part  of  strangest  days, 
That  like  to  burning  dreams  bewilder  as 
They  scar  the  recollection.     She's  more  kin 
To  those  strange  creatures  of  the  wood  that  peeped 
About  my  shelter  when  she  lay  a  babe 
Than  to  my  blood.     Yet  she  is  mine — my  daughter. 

Hub.  Will  you  not  see  her? 

La.  Alb.  No. 

Hub.  You  will  find  her  up. 

La.  Alb.  Why  should  I  see  her?     Give  a  stranger's  kiss, 
And  hear  her  stiffly  say  "  Your  ladyship  "? 
If  she  wrould  love  me ! 

Hub.  Do  not  weep. 

La.  Alb.  You  think 

I  do  not  suffer. 


18  LORDS    AND    LOVERS 

Hub.  I've  no  wish  to  think  so. 

La.  Alb.  I'm  nearly  mad  at  times!     But  I  must  go. 

Hub.  [Hesitating]  How  is — the  princess? 

La.  Alb.                                              Margaret?     O,  well, 
But  every  day  more  full  of  starts  and  whims. 
Last  night  the  king  was  with  us 

Hub.  Ah,  the  king? 

La.  Alb.  She   gave   him   stinted   welcome.     Then  my 

lord 

Came  in  with  news  of  the  advancing  fleet, 
And  danger  to  the  throne,  concluding  with 
Your  aim  to  put  to  sea,  and  at  that  point 
She  swooned  quite  prettily  and  pleased  the  king. 

Hub.  She  swooned? 

La.  Alb.  Most  properly,  the  king  being  by 

To  know  it  was  for  him. 

Hub.  O — ay,  for  him! 

La.  Alb.  Who  else?     I  hope  they'll  soon  be  wed. 

Hub.  Be  wed? 

Henry  is  young. 

La.  Alb.  But  old  enough  being  king. 
And  Albemarle  is  pressing  for  the  marriage. 
'Tis  now  ten  years  since  Margaret  came  from  Scotland 
To  be  his  charge.     A  pretty  child — do  you 
Remember?     But  now  grown  from  beauty,  pale 
And  fanciful.     You've  seen  the  change? 

Hub.  To  me 

She  never  changes  but  to  show  herself 
More  beautiful. 

La.  Alb.  You  have  not  seen  it?    Pah! 
Now  I  must  go.     Good  brother,  fare  you  well. 
You've  given  me  comfort.         [Kisses  him] 

Hub.  Farewell,  Eleanor. 

[Exit  lady  Albemarle] 
Art  gone,  my  sister,  and  no  word  of  love 


LORDS    AND    LOVERS  19 

For  one  who  looks  on  death?     It  is  the  fear 
That  keeps  so  constant  with  her  makes  her  hard 
And  unlike  woman — unlike  Margaret. 
.  .  .  Last  night  the  king  was  with  her — and  she  swooned. 
But  not  for  him.     By  Heaven,  'twas  not  for  him! 
[Sits  by  table,  bowing  his  head  upon  it] 

0  Margaret!     Not  one  dear  word?     Not  one? 

[Enter  Margaret,  veiled] 

Mar.  Ah!  [Steps  toward  him,  throwing  off  her  veil] 
Hubert? 

Hub.  [Starting  up]  Princess!     Here?     You  here? 

Mar.  Couldst  think  I'd  let  thee  go  till  I  had  said 
"  God  save  thee  "  to  thy  face? 

Hub.  You  risk  too  much! 

Mar.  Risk,  Hubert? 

Hub.  O,  what  have  you  done? 

Mar.  What  done? 

Hub.  The  king  will  think— 

Mar.  The  king  will  think  as  I  do, 

That  'tis  most  natural  to  pay  adieu 
To  friends. 

Hub.       But  Albemarle 

Mar.  Approves  our  friendship. 

1  do  not  understand. 

Hub.  Yet  you  came  veiled. 

Mar.  'Twos  early — and  the  air  was  pricking  chill. 
I — thought — do  you  go  soon? 

Hub.  That  you  should  come! 

Mar.  Soon,  Hubert? 

Hub.  Ay,  at  once. 

Mar.  At  once.     Why  then, 

Farewell. 

Hub.  Stay!    Ah — I  mean — why  did  you  come? 

Mar.  My  soul !     I  think  I  came  that  you  might  wish 
Me  back  again.     Was  it  so  wrong  of  me? 


20  LORDS    AND    LOVERS 

Are  we  not  friends?     And  if  I  came  in  hope 
To  ease  adieu  with  unction  of  a  tear 
I  know  none  else  would  shed 

Hub.  O,  Margaret! 

Pray  God  that  I  deserve  this!     Now  I  go 
So  light  I'll  hardly  need  my  ship's  good  wings 
To  bear  me. 

Mar.  The  earl  doubts  not  your  victory. 
How  many  ships  go  with  you? 

Hub.  All  we  have. 

The  ports  hold  not  a  single  vessel  from  me. 

Mar.  And  the  enemy's?     I  hope  they  are  enough 
To  make  your  victory  noble. 

Hub.  I've  no  doubt 

They  count  up  bravely. 

Mar.  Not  too  many,  sir! 

Hub.  The  battle  will  not  shame  me. 

Mar.  But  how  many? 

Hub.  As  yet  we  have  no  word  but  rumor's. 

Mar.  Ah! 

Tell  me  you'll  win. 

Hub.  Then  help  me  by  not  doubting. 

Mar.  I  must  not  doubt — for  if — I  did 

Hub.  What  then? 

Mar.  Nay,  I'll  not  stay  to  tell  you.     I  must  go. 
I  keep  you  from  the  battle  and  your  fame. 
You  have  forgiven  me  my  morning  ride? 
Faith,  but  you  frowned ! 

Hub.  I  thought  how  many  eyes 

Were  on  the  king's  betrothed. 

Mar.  Choose  better  words, 

My  friend.     I  am  not  yet  the  king's  betrothed, 
And  I — had  you  the  time 

Hub.  Nay,  all  my  life 

Is  yours. 


LORDS    AND    LOVERS  21 

Mar.  Hear  then.     1  will  not  wed  the  king. 

Hub.  A  princess  can  not  choose. 

Mar.  Then  I'll  not  be 

A  princess! 

Hub.        Margaret ! 

Mar.  A  princess?     Nay, 

I'll  be  no  more  a  woman,  if  that  means 
To  cage  my  soul  in  circle  of  a  court 
And  fawn  on  turn-key  humor  for  my  life ! 
Scotland  is  lost  to  me.     I'll  not  go  there 
To  meet  my  dangerous  brother's  wrath.     No,  no! 
But  there  are  forests — I  can  fly  to  them. 
And  dig  my  food  from  Nature's  generous  earth, 
Thrive  on  her  berries,  drink  from  her  clear  streams, 
Sleep  'neath  the  royal  coverlet  of  her  leaves, 
And  make  some  honest  friends  'mong  her  kind  creatures 
That  we  call  dumb  because,  forsooth,  they  speak 
By  eye  and  touch  and  gibber  not  as  we ! 
...  So  silent,  sir?     Come,  will  you  not  advise  me?  .  .  . 
There  was  a  day  before  the  day  of  kings 
^Yhen  maidens  looked  where'er  their  hearts  had  sped 
And  found  them  mates  who  had  no  need  of  crowns 
To  make  them  royal,  and  such  a  day  the  world 
May  see  again,  but  I,  alack,  must  breathe 
The  present  time,  and  crave  the  help  of  state 
And  craft  and  gold  to  get  me  married !     O, 
The  judgment  angel  gathering  up  our  clay 
"Will  know  this  period  by  its  broken  hearts ! 
.  .  .  Hast  not  a  word?     Now  should  I  wed  the  king? 

Hub.  He  is  a  gentle  youth,  and  in  your  care 
Would  blossom  brave  in  virtues. 

Mar.  Nay 

Hub.  All  hope 

For  this  poor  land  lies  in  your  grace. 

Mar.  Ah,  Hubert, 


22  LORDS    AND    LOVERS 

Where  is  there  woman  strong  enough  to  save 
Fair  Henry  from  his  flatterers?     Not  here. 
Wouldst  cast  me  to  the  pool  where  he  must  drown? 

Hub.  Where  canst  thou  hide  thy  beauty,  Margaret? 
This  is  wild  talk  of  forests.     Where  couldst  flee? 
What  land  would  shelter  thee  from  England's  love 
And  Scotland's  rage?     My  own — my  Margaret — 
Where  could  we  go? 

Mar.  O,  Hubert,  we? 

Hub.  I'm  mad. 

Peace  to  thee,  maiden.     I  go  to  my  ships. 

Mar.  Forgive  me!     I'll  be  gone. 
[Re-enter  Gersa] 

Hub.  What!     Not  aboard? 

Ger.  Your  pardon,  sir.     We  have  confirmed  reports 
The  French  outnumber  us  by  triple  count. 
Eighty  large  ships,  the  double  of  our  own, 
Besides  two  score  of  galleons  and  small  vessels 
That  in  themselves  would  match  us.     And  'tis  sure 
Le  Moine,  the  pirate,  leads  the  fleet. 

Hub.  Are  all 

Now  ready? 

Ger.          Ay,  we  wait  for  you. 

Hub.  Grant  me 

A  bare  half  hour — no — not  so  much.     I  shall 
O'ertake  you  ere  you  reach  your  ship. 

[Exit  Gersa.     Hubert  turns  to  Margaret  and  finds  that 
she  has  fainted] 

My  lady! 
Is  this,  too,  for  the  king? 

Mar.  [Reviving]  You  shall  not  go! 

Hub.  I  must — and    now.      Let    me    but    press   your 
hand 

Mar.  No,  no,  my  lips !     Hubert,  let  us  be  true. 
Death  watches  now  and  will  report  all  lies 


LORDS    AND    LOVERS  23 

To  Heaven.     Now  I  must  see  you  go  from  me, 

Out  of  my  eyes  as  stars  go  from  the  sky, 

And  never,  never  see  you  come  again, 

Let  me  once  hear  you  say  you  love  me,  Hubert, 

And  all  the  years  that  I  must  weep  for  thee 

I'll  keep  the  words  as  a  sweet  golden  bell 

To  sound  whene'er  my  ears  want  music. 

Hub.  Thou  art  the 'king's. 

Mar.  ^Tay,  I  will  lay  my  head 

Upon  the  block,  ere  pillow  it  by  his. 

Hub.  Then  we'll  be  mad  together,  Margaret. 
To  go  one  step  in  this  is  to  go  farthest. 
Ah,  yesterday  I  saw  a  knight  I  loved 
Sink  in  his  blood ;  but  when  he  called  the  name 
Of  his  dear  bride,  and  died  as  it  made  sweet 
His  lips,  I  thought  of  you  and  envied  him. 
And  now,  so  soon,  his  fortune  is  my  own. 
[Calls]  Come,  father!     [To  Margaret]  Art  afraid? 

Mar.  Ah,  yes,  afraid 

That  I  may  lose  thee! 

Hub.  Is  it  hell,  or  Heaven? 

[Re-enter  friar  Sebastian] 

Good  father,  when  two  souls  have  kissed  so  close 
They  in  each  other  lose  the  form  of  self, 
And  neither  body  knows  its  own  again, 
Wouldst  join  them  mortally,  that  being  one 
They  can  not  go  amiss? 

Fr.  Seb.  If  they  be  free, 

My  son,  to  take  the  vows. 

Hub.  Thou  knowest  us. 

Fr.  Seb.  I've  blessed  ye  both  as  children. 

Mar.  I  am  free 

By  my  soul's  right,  and  though  a  princess  born, 
Here  choose  my  lord. 

Fr.  Seb.  My  daughter,  thou  art  noble, 


24  LORDS    AND    LOVERS 

And  must  be  written  fair  though  envy  keep 
The  beadroll  of  thy  faults,  but  'tis  poor  rank 
Not  thee  stoops  to  this  choice. 

Mar.  I  know  it,  father. 

Though  it  should  cost  my  fortune,  name  and  place, 
I'd  give  them  all  to  be  his  wife  one  hour. 

Fr.  Seb.  Then,  by  my  sacred  vows,  as  I  believe 
Love  is  from  Heaven,  and  'tis  God  himself 
Who  fosters  its  sweet  growth  through  all  the  blood 
Till  action,  thought,  yea,  life,  do  hang  upon  it, 
I'll  bind  ye  in  the  dear  eternal  bonds, 
And  bless  your  union  with  the  holy  feast. 
Come  in  with  me.     [Exit,  rear] 

Hub.  [Embracing  her]  'Tis  Heaven,  MTargaret! 

[Curtain] 


•f-EBlU 

OF  THE     * 

(    UNIVERSITY  ! 

OF 


ACT    II 

SCENE  1.  Within  Dover  castle.     Same  room  as  in  act  first. 
Enter  Glaia  followed  by  Eldra. 

Eld.  O,  my  lady,  up  all  night,  and  now  'tis  barely  day 
you  must  be  going! 

Gla.  My  good  Eldra,  you  would  teach  my  shadow  con 
stancy,  for  you  follow  me  without  let  or  leave  from  the 
sun. 

Eld.  I  follow  not  you  but  my  orders,  mistress.  Sir 
Roland  says  that  I  must  not  leave  you. 

Gla.  The  gates  are  all  locked.  Does  he  think  me  a 
bird  to  fly  over  the  walls? 

Eld.  That  he  does!  The  bonniest  bird  that  ever  sang 
in  Greenot  woods.  Isn't  Sir  Roland  a  man,  my  lady? 

Gla.  By  his  cap  and  feather,  I  should  not  doubt  it. 

Eld.  But  a  man  you  may  look  at,  my  lady ! 

Gla.  Pray  God  I  may,  madam,  for  'tis  sad  to  be  young 
and  blind. 

Eld.  Ay,  but  when  I  look  at  Sir  Roland  I  could  sing 
again  the  song  that  got  me  a  husband. 

Gla.  What  song?  I  think  you  got  him  with  your  fair 
face  and  honest  mind,  and  he  took  the  song  by  way  of 
grace  with  meat. 

Eld.  True,  mistress,  I  was  a  fair,  canny  lass  over  the 
border. 

Gla.  And  a  fair,  canny  dame  you  are  now,  Eldra.  But 
what  was  the  song? 

25 


26  LORDS    AND    LOVERS 

Eld.  It  was  back  summat  ten  jaunts  o'  the  sun  from 
Lammas  to  Lammas.  I  was  standing  on  the  rock  hills 
over  Logan  frith  wi'  the  green  woods  behind  me  an' 
lookin'  out  to  sea.  The  waves  were  runnin'  high,  and  the 
brine  in  my  face  gave  me  such  a  spirit  that  in  a  minute 
my  bonnet  was  off  and  I  was  singing  at  the  top  of  my 
voice — 

O  braw,  braw  knight,  come  down  the  glen 

And  awa'  to  kirk  wi'  me! 
And  Heaven  send  us  seven  stout  sons 
To  fight  for  our  king  on  the  sea! 

It's  a  long  ballad,  but  it's  out  o'  my  mind  now,  and  who 
should  come  up  behind  me  but  my  man  that  was  to  be, 
and  'twas  set  then  and  there  we  must  go  to  the  kirk  come 
Sunday.  Ay,  it  got  me  a  husband,  but  never  a  son,  for 
only  six  months  away  he  was  drowned  at  sea — the  very 
sea  that  I'd  sung  so  brave  t-to 

Gla.  Don't  cry.  He  will  come  sailing  back  some  day 
with  a  fortune  in  his  pocket.  I  don't  believe  he  was 
drowned. 

Eld.  I  care  not  what's  in  his  pocket,  ma'am,  if  he 
bring  me  love  in  his  heart. 

Gla.  That  he  will,  I  am  sure.     Where  is  Orson? 

Eld.  Bathing  his  knees  in  gooseoil,  my  lady.  You  kept 
him  at  prayers  all  night  for  Sir  Hubert. 

Gla.  Why,  did  we  not  share  his  watch? 

Eld.  Yes,  mistress,  but  when  you  fell  asleep  we  had 
not  the  heart  to  wake  you. 

Gla.  O,  ho!  I  fell  asleep,  did  I? 

Eld.  I  should  hope  you  did,  my  lady.  For  my  part  I 
winked  but  once,  and  when  I  woke  up  you  were 

Gla.  Asleep? 

Eld.  No,  but  you  were  praying  so  chipper  that  I  knew 
you  were  just  at  it. 


LORDS    AND    LOVERS  27 

Gla.  O,  false  woman !  Do  you  think  I  could  sleep  when 
Hubert  is  on  the  sea?  Call  Orson  to  me. 

Eld.  Orson!     Orson! 

[Enter  Orson,  walking  stiffly] 

Gla.  Why,  Orson,  you  carry  as  much  dignity  as  a  watch 
man  that  has  just  let  in  a  duke. 

Ors.  Mock  not  affliction  got  in  your  service,  my  lady. 

Gla.  My  service?  When  did  I  tell  you  to  sleep  all 
night  on  your  knees? 

Ors.  Sleep?     Sleep,  lady? 

Gla.  Ay,  sleep.     You  are  a  knave.     Bring  me  my  lute. 

Ors.  [Muttering]  Sleep!    There's  thanks  for  you! 

[Extil 

Eld.  Mistress,  you  must  not  play  your  lute  here.  The 
king's  men  are  not  like  Sir  Hubert's,  and  your  voice  will 
quick  tell  'em  there's  a  bird  in  the  bower. 

Gla.  I  am  not  afraid.  What  are  men  but  creatures 
like  ourselves? 

Eld.  Like  ourselves?     La,  my  lady! 

Gla.  There's  no  harm  in  them.  You  are  a  foolish 
dame. 

[Re-enter  Orson] 

[Taking  lute]  Good  Orson,  I  am  sorry  if  your  knees 
are  stiff.  You  may  have  the  unguent  that  Sir  Roland 
brought  me  from  Palestine.  Go,  Eldra,  and  get  it  for 
him. 

Eld.  [Aside]  An  I  give  him  not  gooseoil  with  a  dash  of 
cinnamon,  I'm  no  good  servant  to  my  mistress. 

[Exeunt  Eldra  and  Orson] 

Gla.  I  do  not  like  this  castle  with  Hubert  away.  Sir 
Roland  makes  it  a  prison.  If  I  could  get  out  I  should  try 
to  find  my  way  to  Greenot  woods.  The  doves  are  nesting 
now,  and  the  little  brown  fawns  are  specked  with  snow. 
[Plays  lute  and  sings] 


28  LORDS    AND    LOVERS 

O,  lady,  let  the  roses  blow 

In  thy  pale  cheeks  for  this — 
That  I  may  to  that  garden  go 

And  pluck  them  with  a  kiss. 

My  roses  are  all  plucked,  she  said, 

No  more  shall  ever  grow, 
For  cold  is  he  and  low  his  head 

Whose  dear  love  made  them  blow. 

Then  lay  she  down  where  slept  her  lord 

Upon  the  silver  heather; 
Then  sighed  the  knight,  nor  said  he  word, 

But  left  the  twa  together. 

[Enter  the  king,  dressed  in  black.     He  gazes  at  Glaia] 

Gla.  What  is  your  name,  boy? 

Hen.  Henry. 

Gla.  Henry?    That  is  the  king's  name.     Are  you  his 
soldier? 

Hen.  I  fight  for  him. 

Gla.  Ah,  me! 

Hen.  Is  it  not  brave  to  fight? 

Gla.  But  kings  are  wicked 

To  buy  their  kingdoms  with  their  subjects'  lives. 
Two  days  ago  they  brought  a  noble  knight 
Into  the  castle,  bloody  and  quite  dead, 
And  when  I  cried,  my  Hubert  whispered  "  Hush, 
'Tis  for  the  king."     Hubert  is  now  at  sea — 
Mayhap  this  moment  dies — and  for  the  king. 
And  'twas  last  night  I  heard  Sir  Roland  say 
"We'll  hold  the  castle  till  each  man  is  down," 
All  for  the  king.     And  now  you  fight  for  him. 
I  hate  the  king ! 

Hen.  O,  do  not  say  that. 


LORDS    AND    LOVERS  29 

Gla.  Why? 

Hen.  Because  he  loves  you. 

Gla.  He  has  never  seen  me. 

You're  merry,  boy. 

Hen.  But  good  kings  love  their  subjects 

Before  they  know  them. 

Gla.  O!     Is  Henry  good? 

Hen.  He  prays  to  be  so. 

Gla.  Let  him  pray,  lest  he 

Grow  old  in  evil  like  his  father,  John. 
Who  is  your  father,  Henry? 

Hen.  He  is  dead. 

Gla.  Ah!    But  you  have  a  mother. 

Hen.  Far  away, 

And  one  who  loves  me  little. 

Gla.  Now  I'll  sigh 

No  more  for  parents,  since  I  know  that  they 
May  die,  or  prove  unkind.     I  have  no  kin. 
But  Hubert  loves  me. 

Hen.  Lady 

Gla.  I  am  Glaia. 

That  is  all  I  know,  but  Hubert  says 
Some  day  he'll  tell  me  more.     I  do  not  care. 
I  love  to  be  a  mystery  to  myself. 

Hen.  [Aside]   She's    nobly   born,   and   kept   from   her 

estate ; 
But  how  should  she  be  honest  Hubert's  charge? 

Gla.  What  say  you,  Henry? 

Hen.  'Tis  so  strange  to  find 

An  angel  housing  in  this  black-browed  castle, 
Converting  war's  grim  seat  to  paradise. 
Hast  always  lived  here? 

Gla.  O,  behind  these  walls? 

No,  I've  a  home  deep  in  the  happy  forest. 
I  do  not  like  this  place — these  huge  black  rocks 


30  LORDS    AND    LOVERS 

Piled  up  so  high,  with  caves  i'  the  ground,  and  holes 
To  shoot  out  arrows.     I  walk  on  tiptoe  here, 
Afraid  I'll  wake  the  ghosts  that  sleep  i'  the  corners. 
But  in  the  forest  I  can  shout  and  run, 
And  everything  I  wake  will  laugh  and  sing. 

Hen.  Where  is  this  happy  place? 

Gla.  I  can  not  tell. 

'Twas  night  when  we  came  here,  and  Hubert  says 
That  none  must  know  the  way.     I  wonder  why. 
Do  you  live  in  a  castle? 

Hen.  When  I'm  not 

At  wars. 

Gla.  O  me,  I  would  not  live  in  one 
To  please 

Hen.  The  king? 

Gla.  No,  not  to  please  the  king. 

Hen.  If  he  were  lonely,  Glaia? 

Gla.  Lonely?     O, 

He  is  to  wed  the  princess  Margaret. 
Are  you  not  glad?     He'll  not  be  lonely  then. 
She's  fair  and  good,  they  say. 

Hen.  But  not  as  you. 

Her  princess  feet  like  well  the  solid  earth. 
She  is  a  flower  that  sips  of  sun  and  dew, 
But  feedeth  most  from  root-cups  firm  in  ground; 
While  you  are  made  of  music,  love,  and  air, — 
A  being  of  the  sky — a  lover's  star, 
Although  he  be  a  king.     The  grace  of  heaven 
About  your  beauty  plays,  and  drops  as  soft 
Upon  my  eyes  as  light  from  the  lark's  wing. 
But  I  must  leave  you  now.     Sweet,  take  this  gift. 

[Gives  her  his  jewelled  belt] 

And  know  my  name  and  place  are  worthy  yours, 
Though  you  should  be  a  princess,  as  I  think. 
See,  here's  a  jewel  in  this  belt.     I  dare 


LORDS    AND    LOVERS  31 

To  part  with  it,  though  wise  men  say  my  life 
Is  safe  but  when  I  wear  it.     'Tis  the  stone 
Of  Wales,  and  blessed  by  magic  of  the  seers 
That  in  that  country  dwell. 

Gla.  Then  keep  it.     Ay, 

You  must. 

Hen.  No,  no!     I  have  a  fear  some  harm 
Will  touch  you,  me  away.     Keep  you  the  charm, 
And  I  will  take  your  lute.     In  lonely  hours 
I'll  touch  the  chords  and  think  thou'rt  listening. 

[Exit] 

Gla.  A  lovely  boy!     O  me,  these  dreadful  wars! 
Eldra's  a  goose  to  call  the  king's  men  rude. 
I  wish  he  had  not  gone.     I'll  play  again 
And  see  who'll  come.     Ah,  now  I  have  no  lute. 
No  matter,  I  will  sing. 
[Sings] 
O,  sweet  the  day  and  fair  the  May, 

But  Love  he  laid  him  down  to  weep 

[Enter  Gregory] 

Greg.  A  pixy  sure! 

Sweet  apparition,  wilt  fly  if  I  approach? 
Then  here  I'll  stand,  and  from  this  point  remote 
As  frosty  Hebrid  from  the  golden  East, 
Adore  thy  seeming  substance!     Ah,  no  answer? 
Advance  then,  valiant  Gregory,  and  explore. 
Flesh?     'S  light,  'tis  flesh!     A  very  woman,  too. 
A  silent  woman.     Heavenly  miracle! 
With  lips  like  twin  strawberries  'neath  one  leaf. 
The  very  manner  of  them  begs  a  kiss. 
I'  faith,  they  shall  not  beg. 

Gla.  You  would  not  kiss  me! 

Greg.  You  wrong  me,  duck.     Why,  I'm  a  man  of  mirth 
A  soldier,  sweet.     And  would  not  kiss?     Now,  now! 
You  take  me  for  a  ghost — or  starve-bone  saint. 


32  LORDS    AND    LOVERS 

I  am  not  padded — I  fill  out  my  coat 

And  owe  but  for  the  cloth.     A  man,  my  chick ! 

Shalt  have  a  kiss. 

Gla.  O,  help  me,  Eldra!     Help! 

[Stephen  runs  in,  seizes  Gregory  and  shakes  him  about] 

Ste.  [Pricking  him  with  his  sword]  Shalt  have  a  kiss, 

he  shall !     A  man,  my  chick ! 
I  fill  my  coat,  I  do ! 

Greg.  Hold,  sir!     I  am 

An  officer  of  the  king ! 

Ste.  Why  then,  shalt  have 

More  kisses!     'S  blood!     I  thought  thee  but  a  scrub. 
A  king's  man,  sir,  shall  have  more  ceremony. 

[Pricks  him  around  the  room.      Enter  Roland] 

Rol.  Stephen!     Brawling  here?     You  know  the  orders. 

Ste.  Orders,  I  take  it,  sir,  don't  count  in  such  a  case 
extraordinary. 

Rol.  Your  extraordinary  cases  have  become  quite  usual, 
Stephen. 

Ste.  Be  you  the  judge,  sir.     This  gay  blood  here  was 
troubling  the  lady 

Rol.  Glaia!     Then  he  dies!     [Drawing  his  sword] 

Ste.  Orders,  orders,  sir! 

Gla.  He  did  not  touch  me,  Roland. 

Rol.  Touch  thee?     If  he 

No  more  than  looked  at  thee  death  is  enough. 
But  had  he  touched  thee — 

Gla.  Art  thou  cruel,  Roland? 

I  thought  thee  gentle.     Wouldst  thou  make  me  hate  thee? 

Rol.  You    shall    not   hate   me,    Glaia.      [Sheathes   his 

sword]      Let  him  live. 
But  take  him  from  my  sight. 

[Exeunt  Stephen  and  Gregory] 

Gla.  O,  Roland,  now 

I  love  thee! 


LORDS    AND    LOVERS  33 

Rol.     Love  me,  Glaia? 

Gla.  Next  to  Hubert. 

Rol.  O,  next  to  Hubert. 

Gla.  And  the  boy. 

Rol.  The  boy? 

Gla.  Henry  his  name  is.     Such  a  pretty  youth! 
He  gave  me  this, — and  see,  this  jewel  here 
Is  all  so  precious  that  it  guards  the  life 
Of  whoso  wears  it.     He  must  like  me  well 
To  give  it  me.     Dost  think  he  likes  me,  Roland? 

Rol.  [Aside]  O  God,  the  king!  .  .  .  Give  me  the  bal 
dric,  Glaia. 

I  will  return  it,  for  I  know  the  youth. 
In  truth,  I've  seen  him  wear  this  very  belt. 
'Twas  wrong  to  take  it,  Glaia.     He  belongs 
So  wholly  to  the  king  that  you  can  have 
No  portion  of  his  love,  lest  he  betray 
Himself  and  thee.     Go,  get  you  ready,  child, 
To  leave  this  place.     For  you  'tis  full  of  dangers. 

Gla.  Back  to  the  woods?     O  happiness!     But  I — 
Ah,  must  we  go  so  soon? 

Rol.  It  was  your  prayer. 

Gla.  But  then — I  had  not — strange !     Why  is  it,  Roland. 
'Tis  not  so  merry  going  as  I  thought? 
Is  't  not  a  little  lonely  in  the  woods? 
And  yet  it  never  seemed  so.     Will  you  come 
To  see  me,  Roland? 

Rol.  Do  you  want  me,  Glaia? 

Gla.  O,  yes,  dear  Roland!     And  you'll  bring  the  boy? 
I  want  to  ask  if  he  will  be  my  brother. 

Rol.  You  must  not  see  him.     Go  and  get  you  ready. 

[Exit  Glaia} 

O,  wretched  me,  to  love  so  frail  a  thing! 
Fragile  and  pure,  thou  art  not  for  this  world, 
Where  the  same  winds  that  bring  thee  breath  must  blow 


34  LORDS    AND    LOVERS 

Thy  gentle  life  out. 

[Re-enter  the  king] 

Sovereign  liege, 

Count  it  not  boldness  if  I  dare  to  guess 
Your  presence  here.     You  come,  my  lord,  to  find 
This  precious  property.     [Gives  him  the  belt] 

I  know  'tis  prized, 

And  hold  me  happy  that  it  met  my  eye 
Before  another's. 

Hen.  Gentle  Roland,  thanks. 

I  need  not  ask  if  you  found  aught  with  this 
More  precious  still. 

Rol.  Nothing  that  majesty 

Might  without  blushing  claim. 

Hen.  Thank  you  again. 

[Aside]   I've  found  the  lover!   ...   Is  there  news  from 

sea? 

Rol.  Uncertain  news,  that  I  was  on  my  way 
To  give  to  you.     Report  cries  victory 
For  Hubert,  but  'tis  chance  improbable 
That  he  should  win,  so  take  a  breath,  your  highness, 
Ere  you  believe. 

Hen.  The  lords  must  know  of  this! 

Rol.  Your  majesty,  I  have  a  suit  to  thee. 

Hen.  A  victory! 

Rol.  If  you  do  hold  him  dear 

Who,  by  report,  has  won  this  doubtful  battle, 
That  saves  your  kingdom  and  sets  fast  your  crown, 
I  beg  you  hear  me! 

Hen.  Speak,  but  be  not  slow, 
Good  Roland. 

Rol.  Sire,  De  Burgh  has  enemies 

Who  seek  his  downfall,  for  his  honesty 
Stands  rock-like  'tween  the  throne  and  treachery. 
'Twas  they  who  wrought  to  send  him  feebly  forth 


LORDS    AND    LOVERS  35 

'Gainst  odds  so  great  they  left  no  chance  of  life 
Save  by  God's  love  and  favor.     If  he  wins, 
The  victor's  garland  and  his  king's  reward 
Will  further  urge  their  hate  to  villainy. 

Hen.         Who  are  these  foes? 

Rol.  The  earl  of  Albemarle, 

Pembroke  and  Winchester. 

Hen.  My  very  staff! 

What  proof  hast  thou? 

Rol.  I've  nothing  for  your  eye, 
But  in  my  heart  there  is  a  testament 
That  makes  me  bold  to  name  them.     I  would  risk 
All  but  my  soul  to  save  you  such  a  friend 
And  virtuous  servant  as  De  Burgh.     You  may 
Condemn  me 

Hen.  First,  I'll  watch  these  lords. 
But  be  they  false,  where,  where  shall  I  find  friends? 

Rol.  'Mong  those  who  fight  your  battles,  sire,  nor  fear 
To  die  to  save  a  king. 

[Exit] 

Hen.  [Seating  himself  in  an  alcove] 

I  see  a  king 

Must  take  some  thought  to  keep  his  crown  on  's  head. 
[Re-enter  Stephen  and  Eldra] 

Eld.  Dear  man,  you  can't  deny  it!  'Twas  you  saved 
my  mistress.  But  for  my  good  man  drowned  at  sea  I'd 
love  you,  sweeting. 

Ste.  And  if  you  love  me  it  must  be  by  way  of  kiss  and 
part,  for  my  good  wife  is  still  in  the  world,  I've  reason  to 
think,  and  some  day  I  shall  run  plumb  into  her  bonny 
white  arms.  But  a  kiss,  my  lass,  with  a  penny  to  the 
priest,  can  do  a  soldier  no  harm,  and  you'll  always  find 
me  obliging  in  everything  except  matrimony. 

Eld.  Out!  Away!  You  old  father  Longbeard!  You 
Johnny  Hump-back ! 


36  LORDS    AND    LOVERS 

Ste.  Hump!  'Tis  the  squint  in  your  eye,  my  dearie! 
I'm  as  straight  as  a  poplar  in  the  king's  court. 

Eld.  Squint,  sir?  May  be  so,  for  I'm  thinkin'  o'  my 
braw  handsome  man,  an'  'twould  make  a  straight  eye 
squint  to  see  you  standin'  in  his  place,  it  would. 

Ste.  An'  I'm  thinkin'  o'  my  bonny  little  girl,  as  plump 
and  tender  as  a  partridge  at  her  first  nest,  and  out  upon 
you,  my  fine,  fat  waddler! 

Eld.  An  my  man  were  here  you'd  drop  to  your  fours 
and  go  like  a  beast  for  shame,  you  would.  The  prettiest 
figure  'tween  here  and  Jerusalem!  He  had  an  arm!  He 
could  sling  a  sword!  And  such  a  leg!  Dick  Lion-heart 
never  shaped  a  trimmer  stocking.  Hair  like  a  raven 
fannin'  the  wind!  An  eye  like  Sallydeen's!  For  all  the 
world  a  black  coal  with  a  fire  in  the  middle.  No  watery 
peepers  like  present  company's.  An  his  eyes  were  stars 
in  heaven  I  could  point  'em  out! 

Ste.  O,  my  sweet  wench  that's  a  waitin'  for  me !  When 
shall  I  see  her  comin'with  her  head  up  like  a  highland  doe, 
an'  cheeks  as  red  as  my  grandam's  nightcap?  I  think  o' 
her  now  as  she  stood  on  the  high  rocks  over  Logan's  frith 
singin'  the  song  that  made  the  sugar- water  start  in  my 
heart.  And  straight  I  must  gallop  wi'  her  to  the  kirk — 
Hey,  what's  the  matter,  old  lady? 

Eld.  Nothin' — nothin',  sir, — just  one  o'  my  qualms. 

Ste.  Do  you  have  'em  ordinary?  A  pity  now.  My 
lass,  an  she  lived  a  thousand  years,  would  not  be  qualmsy. 

Eld.  [Aside]  'Tis  Stephen,  my  own  man!  And  he 
doesn't  know  me!  O,  I  am  changed  from  his  ain  lassie! 
He  despises  me!  Waddler!  O! 

Ste.  Chirk  up,  old  duck.     When  I  find  my  lass 

[Re-enter  Orson] 

Ors.  Mistress  Eldra,  what  do  you  gabbling  here  and  my 
lady  calling  you? 

[Exit  Eldra  with  Orson] 


LORDS    AND    LOVERS  37 

Ste.  Eldra?  By  Pharo's  ghost!  Let  me  see— ten 
years.  It  might  be — yes — her  very  complexion — the  pert 
eye — the  little  foot — the  canny  twitch  to  her  lips — and  her 
man  drowned  at  sea.  Well,  I'm  pickled.  She  has  built 
up  such  a  Solomon's  glory  picture  o'  me  that  plain  Stephen 
Godfrey  will  never  get  another  chance.  He  had  an  arm ! 
Ha!  Did  I?  An  eye  like  Sallydeen!  A  leg  like  Lion- 
heart!  Ha!  [Struts  up  and  down]  But  now  I'm  father 
Longbeard.  Well,  I'll  shave  off  this  weeping  willow  tree 
anyhow. 

[Re-enter  Eldra] 

Eld.  Good  sir,  are  you  here  yet? 

Ste.  [Aside]  Good  sir!  Methinks  I  grow  in  favor.  Ay, 
sweet  madam. 

Eld.  [Aside]  He's  lookin'  softer  now.  Well  a  day,  this 
is  a  world.  Here  they  brought  me  and  the  lady  Glaia  to 
make  sure  we  would  be  safe,  and  now  they're  taking  us 
back  for  the  same  reason.  Ay  me,  and  a  lonely,  dreary 
place  it  is  we're  goin'  to,  with  never  a  civil  gentleman  like 
yourself  to  sit  out  the  night  wi'  a  stoop  o'  ale  an'  cakes  o' 
my  own  raisin'. 

Ste.  My  good  madam,  if  you  will  give  me  the  tip  o'  the 
road,  I'll  not  be  a  slow  traveller  when  the  business  of  war 
will  let  an  honest  soldier  course  to  his  liking. 

Eld.  O,  'tis  secret,  sir.  My  lady  is  hid  away  for  some 
reason  of  God  or  the  devil,  and  I'll  not  be  so  false  as  to 
let  a  stranger  on  the  track. 

Ste.  Am  I  a  stranger,  madam?  Did  not  my  good  arm 
no  more  than  an  hour  ago  procure  me  warrant  for  better 
treatment?  Come!  As  you  say,  there  '11  be  lonely  times, 
and  a  discreet  companion  who  knows  how  to  keep  his 
tongue  behind  his  teeth  will  not  come  amiss  on  a  rainy  day. 

Eld.  [Aside]  How  can  it  be  harm  to  tell  my  own  man 
when  the  good  priest  said  we  were  one  flesh?  'Twill  only 
be  tellin'  my  own  ears.  Well,  sir,  if  you'll  swear  by  St. 


38  LORDS    AND    LOVERS 

Peter's  thumb  and  the  crucifix  you'll  never  let  anybody 
know 

Ste.  By  St.  Peter's  thumb  and  the  crucifix — and  your 
black  eyes,  too — I  swear! 

Eld.  Then  take  the  straight  road  to —     O,  I'm  afraid! 

Ste.  Courage,  my  pretty!  There's  not  a  cricket  to 
hear  you. 

Eld.  The  straight  road  to  Greenot  woods,  and  two 
miles  in  the  forest  where  the  brook  crosses,  ride  up  the 
stream  half  a  mile  to  a  tall  red  ash  standin'  alone,  and  three 
miles  by  the  path  to  the  right  brings  you  to  the  place  you'll 
find  me.  Now  I've  done  it!  No,  don't  thank  me  for 
bein'  a  fool. 

Ste.  Nay,  a  woman,  dearie. 

Eld.  I  must  run  to  my  mistress. 

[Exit  Eldra,  Stephen  following] 

Hen.  [Coming  forward]  Go,  Stephen  with  the  Lion's 

leg.     You'll  haste 

If  I  be  not  before  you.     Am  I  bound 
To  Margaret?     By  others'  mouths,  perhaps, 
But  certain  not  at  all  by  oath  of  mine. 

[Enter  friar  Sebastian] 

What  holy  gloom  comes  here?     Friar  Sebastian, 
One  time  the  counsellor  to  Isabel. 
Do  you  not  know  me,  father? 

Fr.  Seb.  [Kneeling]  Gracious  king! 

Hen.  Nay,  rise  and  bless  me. 

Fr.  Seb.  Hear,  my  sovereign. 

This  meeting  is  not  chance.     I  sought  thee  here 
To  tell  what  palsies  me  to  think  on. 

Hen.  Speak, 

Then  think  of  it  no  more. 

Fr.  Seb.  'Tis  said  De  Burgh 

Has  gained  the  victory  'gainst  all  expectance. 
I  know  that  he  was  sure  he  went  to  death, 


LORDS    AND    LOVERS  39 

Else  had  he  never  put  unto  his  lips 
The  rose  that  bloomed  for  one  so  high  above  him. 
But  dreaded  death  is  yet  full  gracious,  sire, 
And  sanctions  rights  too  bold  for  life  to  claim. 

Hen.  Did  Hubert  wrong  me,  father? 

Fr.  Seb.  Alas,  my  king! 

Hen.  Come,  drop  your  burden  even  to  my  heart 
That  I  may  know  its  weight. 

Fr.  Seb.  Sire,  in  the  hour 

That  he  spent  last  on  land,  I  married  him 
To  a  most  noble  lady. 

Hen.  Married?     Ha! 

Nor  asked  consent  of  me?     Not  one 
"  By  your  good  leave,  my  king  "? 

Fr.  Seb.  If  in  my  words 

So  soon  you  find  affront  to  majesty, 
I  dare  not  tell  you  more. 

Hen.  Nay,  I'll  forgive  him. 

Remembering  his  service  'twere  too  stern 
To  make  contention  of  his  marriage. 

Fr.  Seb.  Though  he  should  banish  all  the  woes  of 

England, 

Make  sorrow  alien,  and  a  tear  unknown, 
Yet  has  he  wronged  a  king.     Though  happy  mothers 
Drop  on  their  knees  and  let  no  hour  pass  by 
Without  its  prayer  for  him,  still  has  he  wronged 
A  king! 

Hen.  Wilt  never  speak  because  you  speak 
So  much? 

Fr.  Seb.  Here  let  me  lie,  and  pray  your  grace 
For  two  long  troubled  hearts.     When  I  have  spoken 
Then  set  thy  foot  upon  my  priestly  head, 
But  spare  them,  spare  them,  sire! 

Hen.  Up!     Rise,  I  say, 

From  this  debasement.     We  shall  take  good  care 
To  shield  your  holiness.     Now  speak! 


40  LORDS    AND    LOVERS 

FT.  Seb.  One  word 

Will  tell  you — one. 

Hen.  [Taking  a  seat]  And  how  much  time  will  Jt  take 
To  say  that  word? 

FT.  Seb.  It  is  the  name  of  her 

Whom  knightly  Hubert  made  his  wife. 

Hen.  Is  it 

A  long  name,  father? 

Fr.  Seb.  [On  his  knees]  It  is  Margaret. 

Hen.  [Rising]  Of  Scotland? 

Fr.  Seb.  [Covering  his  head]  Ay,  my  liege. 

Hen.  [Aside]  Deliverance! 

Rise,  father,  rise,  and  learn  that  even  a  king 
Is  noble  enough  to  suffer  and  forgive. 

Fr.  Seb.  Have  I  my  ears?     Are  these  your  words,  my 

lord? 

Or  does  some  pitying  angel  alchemize 
Them  into  sounds  more  fit  to  reach  my  weak 
And  trembling  age? 

Hen.  You  hear  even  as  I  speak. 

'Tis  true  that  Hubert  pitched  his  love  full  high. 
Good  manners  had  not  o'ershot  the  royal  bow; 
But  take  my  word  no  harm  shall  come  to  him. 

Fr.  Seb.  He'll  need  a  friend,  my  liege,  for  dangers  stride 
In  wake  of  this  rash  marriage. 

Hen.  Leave  them 

To  me.     I'll  try  my  fledgling  wit  in  this. 
Where  is  the  cardinal? 

Fr.  Seb.  T  the  western  hall. 

Hen.  Here  come  the  lords.     But  first  I'll  speak  with 
Gualo. 

[Exeunt   Henry    and   friar   Sebastian,    left.     At  right, 
enter  Albemarle,  Winchester  and  Pembroke] 

Pern.  [To  Albemarle]  He  has    not  yet  confirmed  you 
chancellor? 


LORDS    AND    LOVERS  41 

Alb.  No  need,  so  short  his  reign. 

Win.  We  should  have  news. 

By  this  the  battle's  done.     I  wonder  now 
How  far  is  Hubert's  head  on  its  long  journey 
To  ocean's  bottom? 

Alb.  May  it  please  your  grace, 

We  think  'tis  best  that  you  stay  with  the  king. 
If  all  desert  him  'twill  look  foul  in  us, 
And  it  will  take  an  honest  English  face 
To  keep  the  people  with  us. 

Win.  True,  my  lord. 

And  I  will  stay  with  him,  for  I  have  gone 
A  little  deeper  in  his  heart  than  you, 
And  can  best  turn  him  to  advance  our  plot. 

Pern.  While  we  ride  forth  to  call  men  to  defence — 
In  truth  to  give  them  hand  and  foot  to  Louis — 
You  wait  here  with  the  king 

Win.  I  understand. 

And  you  not  coming  up,  perforce  be  taken. 
Then  Henry  may  lay  by  his  crown,  or  keep  't 
To  please  his  jailer's  peeping  mammets,  or  bribe 
His  turnkey  for  a  slug  of  meat. 

Alb.  The  jail 

Where  he  must  lie  is  small  and  needs  no  keeper; 
For  who  go  in  so  well  contented  are 
They're  never  known  to  set  foot  forth  again. 

Win.  Must  go  so  far?     Well,  as  you  please,  my  lords. 

[Re-enter  Henry,  with  Cardinal  Gualo  and  attendants] 

Alb.  God  save  your  majesty! 

Hen.  My  faithful  friends, 

Well  met. 

Win.  Ah,  still  in  black,  my  liege? 

Hen.  Why  not, 

My  lord?     When  my  poor  father  in  the  flesh 
Was  struck  by  death  they  dressed  me  in  this  hue; 


42  LORDS    AND    LOVERS 

And  heavier  cause  have  I  to  wear  it  now, 
When  he  who  gave  my  soul  its  dearest  light — 
My  father  in  nobility  above 
The  blood  or  happy  chance  of  birth — is  gone 
To  come  no  more. 

Win.  But,  good,  my  liege,  am  I 

So  little  worth  that  with  a  strange  misfit 
I  wear  his  dignity? 

Hen.  The  worthier 

You  are  to  wear  't  you'll  teach  me  to  regret 
His  goodness  lost,  and  be  more  pleased  to  see 
How  I  prize  virtue  dead,  guessing  thereby 
How  dear  is  living  virtue  to  my  soul. 

Pern.  [Aside  to  Albemarle]  Does  he  suspect? 

Alb.  'Twould  trouble  us.     There  are 

Some  captains  in  the  fort  would  make  a  way 
For  his  escape. 

H en.  You've  had  tio  news,  my  lords? 

Alb.  We  yet  wait  word,  but  rest  you  easy,  sire. 
Our  fleet  is  safe  and  proudly  bearing  home. 

Hen.  Your  faith  is  strong. 

Alb.  I  have  no  doubt,  my  lord. 

Hen.  Were    it   not   well    to   take   this   time   to   plan 
De  Burgh's  reward? 

Alb.  Ay,  'twere,  your  majesty. 

Hen.  What   say   you,   my  lord   cardinal?    You   first. 
How  should  we  grace  his  triumph?     With  what  honor? 

Gualo.  None  is  too  great.     I'd  place   him   next  the 

throne. 
What  think  your  lordships? 

Alb.  As  yourself,  my  lord. 

[Aside  to  Pembroke]  Best  humor  him. 

Gualo.  Then  further  I  may  speak. 

The  earl  of  Kent,  who  lately  met  his  death, 
Has  left  no  heir  to  his  vast  lands  and  name. 


LORDS    AND    LOVERS  43 

I  think  that  God  did  so  provide  this  place 
For  honor  of  De  Burgh.     And  more  than  this, 
Let  him  be  made  the  great  lord  chancellor, 
And  chief  justiciary  of  this  troubled  realm. 

Alb.  [Aside  to  Pembroke]  Agree.     No  matter.     Gualo's 
eye  is  on  us. 

Win.  You  speak  in  happy  time,  lord  cardinal, 
And  we  embrace  your  meaning  heartily. 

Hen.  This  easy  payment  of  so  great  a  debt 
Inclines  me  to  forget  the  dangerous  way 
De  Burgh  comes  by  his  honor.     We  must  keep 
That  ever  in  our  hearts,  my  worthy  lords, 
Lest  we  grow  jealous  of  his  climbing  fortune. 

Alb.  I  hope  we've  memories,  sire,  and  honest  ones. 

Hen.  Well,  to  forfend  the  bating  of  his  praise 
In  my  poor  mind,  I'll  give  a  lasting  proof 
Of  how  I  hold  him,  and  here  forfeit  right 
To  Margaret's  hand  in  favor  of  De  Burgh. 

Alb.  My  liege!    The  princess? 

Hen.  He  is  now  an  earl; 

And  if  I  not  complain,  should  any  here? 

Alb.  But,  sire 

Pern.  [Aside  to  Albemarle]   Submit!     'Tis  only  for  an 
hour. 

Alb.  Pardon  me  that  I  thought  to  save  you,  sire 
From  such  dear  sacrifice. 

Hen.  'Tis  fit  we  make  it, 

And  ask  your  fair  approval,  Albemarle. 

Alb.  And  here  I  give  it,  my  too  gracious  king. 

[To  an  attendant]  Whist!     Are  the  horses  saddled? 

Ait.  Ready,  sir. 

[Enter  Gregory} 

Hen.  Well,  captain,  well? 

Greg.  The  princess  Margaret 

And  lady  Albemarle  are  at  the  gates. 


44  LORDS    AND    LOVERS 

Alb.  My  countess  gads  for  news  of  her  brave  brother. 
Hen.  A  worthy  quest.  [To  Gregory]  See  them  refreshed 

and  lodged, 
But  bid  them  keep  their  chamber  for  a  time. 

[Exit  Gregory] 

Alb.  [To  Pembroke]  Where  are  our  messengers? 
Can  they  be  lost? 

Pern.  We  should  have  heard  by  now.   There's  something 

wrong. 

[Enter  an  attendant] 
Att.  Your  majesty,  a  messenger! 
Hen.  From  sea? 

[Enter  Gersa] 

Ger.  The  king!    Where  is  the  king? 

Alb.  Pray  use  your  eyes. 

Ger.  [Kneeling]  Your  majesty! 

Hen.         Arise.     Your  message? 

Ger.  Sire, 

Hubert  de  Burgh  is  at  the  port. 

Alb.  [Aside]  How  now? 

Ger.  With  all  his  ships  but  five. 

Pern.  [To  Winchester]  But  five?    What's  here? 

Win.  A  witch  i'  the  pot,  your  lordships. 

Ger.  For  those  five 

There's  fifty  of  the  French  gone  to  the  bottom. 
The  rest  are  scattered  wide,  with  crippled  sails 
Begging  the  winds  for  mercy. 

Hen.  Hark,  my  lords ! 

Divinity  is  here.     [To  Gersa]  How  was  this  done? 
What  know  you  of  the  battle? 

Ger.  When  we  met 

The  opposing  fleet,  we  crept  by  swift  and  silent, . 
As  to  escape  the  fight.     So  near  we  coursed 
We  heard  the  jeers  cast  on  us  as  we  passed. 


LORDS    AND    LOVERS  45 

Well  by,  we  turned,  and  with  the  wind  at  back, 
Bore  down  full  sail  and  grappled. 

Hen.  Here  were  men ! 

Ger.  Then,  sire,  we  cut  the  lime-sacks  on  our  decks 

Hen.  Lime-sacks? 

Ger.  Which  gave  out  smarting  clouds  that  rose 

O  O 

Hen.  Now  here  were  fools! 

Ger.  Sire,  you  forget  the  wind. 

The  sweeping  breeze  took  up  the  stinging  lime, 
Clearing  our  decks,  but  wrapping  round  our  foes, 
Blinding  all  eyes. 

Hen.  St.  George! 

Ger.  'Twas  easy  then 

To  hook  our  vessels  to  the  great  French  ships, 
Cut  down  their  rigging  and  make  way  at  will 
O'er  the  wallowing  crew. 

Pern.  Must  we  believe  this  tale? 

Hen.  Goes  it  against  your  wish? 

Pern.  Nay,  but  'tis  strange. 

Ger.  [To  Henry]  One  hundred  knights,  eight  hundred 

officers, 

Now  wait  their  doom  from  you.     Le  Moine  was  found 
Hid  in  his  ship,  and  offered  mighty  sums 
For  his  vile  life,  but  Fitzroy  closed  the  parley 
By  striking  off  his  head. 

Alb.  What?     Le  Moine  dead? 

H en.  Why  so  amazed,  my  lord  of  Albemarle? 
Did  you  not  prophesy  a  victory? 

Alb:  True,  true,  my  liege,  but  this  surpasses  all 
My  hope  of  it.     Call  it  a  miracle, 
Not  victory. 

Gualo.      Call  it  whate'er  you  will, 
The  Lord  of  Hosts  was  with  this  noble  knight. 

Hen.  Not  knight,  but  the  right  noble  earl  of  Kent, 
And  for  his  life  our  grand  justiciary. 


46  LORDS    AND    LOVERS 

[To  Gersa]  Thou  art  the  mavis  to  a  happy  dawn. 
Come,  sing  again.     [Talks  aside  with  him] 

Win.  [To  Albemarle  and  Pembroke}    Your  lordships,  do 
you  ride? 

Alb.  What  tone  is  this? 

Win.  A  tone  you'll  tune  to,  sir. 

Didst  think  me  such  a  fool  to  stay  and  fall 
With  Henry  into  Louis'  hands?     Nay,  I've 
No  wish  to  enter  that  small  cell  of  earth 
Which  needs  no  turnkey,  as  you  say. 

Alb.  What,  sir? 

Win.  No,  by  the  Lord !    At  the  first  castle  where 
You  planned  to  stop  I  had  my  servants  laid 
To  take  you  prisoners.     It  stirs  my  blood 
That  you  should  think  I  came  to  the  bishopric 
By  a  fool's  wit.     Now  Rome  is  at  my  back, 
And  Henry  king!     But  I'll  make  peace  with  you, 
For  I  foresee  a  power  in  De  Burgh 
That  warns  me  not  to  scorn  even  traitor  strength. 

Alb.  Ay,  we've  no  fear  you'll  let  this  sudden  turn 
Cut  off  our  fortunes. 

Hen.  Come,  my  lords.     Come,  all ! 

We'll  to  the  gates  to  greet  the  earl  of  Kent! 

[Exeunt.     Curtain} 


ACT    III 

SCENE  1.  Same  as  in  act  second.     The  king,  Pembroke, 
Albemarle,  Winchester,  and  other  lords  entering. 

Hen.  The  barons  are  assembling.     On  to  London, 
And  call  the  council.     I  will  join  you  there. 
The  revenues  long  promised  shall  be  paid. 
At  last  I  am  a  king !     Will  post,  my  lords? 
Night  shuffles  toward  the  morn. 

Pern.  You'll  not  forget 

Your  barons'  suit,  my  liege. 

Hen.  Bring  the  petition. 

I'll  look  at  it,  and  then — will  what  I  will. 

[Exit] 

Alb.  What  new-gown  cock  is  this? 

Pern.  Will  what  I  will! 

And  post  you,  sirs ! 

Win.  The  child  that  hung  at  knees 

Now  stands  on  the  great  shoulders  of  De  Burgh, 
And  ports  himself  a  giant  o'er  our  heads. 

Pern.  Ha,  so !    This  wedge  of  love  'twixt  you  and  Henry 
Quite  thrusts  you  out. 

Win.  True,  sir,  but  I've  in  mind 

A  plot  will  reach  as  high  as  Kent's  new  head, 
Which,  with  your  sworn  and  loyal  aid,  I'll  push 
To  fullest  stature. 

Pern.  You  have  my  oath,  my  lord. 

Win.  And  bond  more  sure — your  spurring  need  to  prick 
Kent's  swelling  strength.     But  you,  lord  Albemarle — 

47 


48  LORDS    AND    LOVERS 

The  mighty  Kent  is  brother  to  your  wife, 

Which  now  may  count  somewhat  to  lift  your  fortunes. 

Alb.  And  when  didst  see  my  fortunes  lie  so  low 
As  need  the  hoisting  hand  of  friend  or  kin? 
Nay,  our  ambitions  swear  us  enemies ! 
I  stand  as  free,  my  lord,  as  any  here. 

Win.  Then  hear  my  plan.     You  know  I  carry  all 
With  the  archbishop. 

Pern.  True.     If  Winchester  would 

Trust  Canterbury  to  find  way. 

Win.  Through  him 

We'll  call  this  council  in  the  name  of  Rome, 
To  kill  the  canker  in  the  bud  of  peace 
So  lately  ventured  in  the  track  of  war, 
And  sound  abroad  that  on  this  holy  day 
All  weapons,  armor,  and  gross  sign  of  blood 
Shall  be  laid  by.     I  will  persuade  the  king 
His  dignity  is  touched  to  be  so  quick 
To  fill  his  purse  before  he  says  his  prayers, 
And  that  'tis  wise  to  throw  this  goodly  bait 
To  hook  the  common  love.     Now  to  this  meeting 
Let  every  prelate  bear  most  righteous  arms, 
And  every  baron  look  well  to  his  sword ; 
Then  when  the  unsuspecting  king  appears, 
Close  companied  no  doubt  by  his  new  earl, 
That  mushroom  minion  we  will  dare  accuse 
And  crop  his  power  as  we  prize  our  safety. 

Pern.  But  will  not  Kent  oppose  this  swordless  worship? 

Win.  Nay,  he's  afflicted  with  true  piety, 
And  in  the  addling  flush  of  high  success 
Is  mellow  with  the  good  love  of  the  world. 
All  men  are  honest  now!     Trust  me,  he'll  bait 
At  what  his  judgment  yesterday  had  scorned. 

Alb.  But  what  have  we  t'  advance  with  show  of  right 
Against  him? 


UNIVERSITY 


OF  / 

LORDS    AND    LOVERS  49 

Win.  Gualo  brings  the  axe — although 
He  knows  it  not — that  shall  behead  De  Burgh. 
Trust  me,  my  lords,  and  soon  you  shall  know  more. 

Alb.  WTork  as  you  will,  for  while  he  is  in  power 
We  are  but  puppets  and  I  dance  not  well. 

Win.  I'll  ride  with  Gualo,  and  begin  our  move. 
Then  on  to  Canterbury.     Fare  you  well, 
Till  morning  bring  our  bold  designs  together. 

[Exit] 

Alb.  How,  Pembroke?    Seest  the  gull  in  this? 

Pern.  It  needs 

No  second  sight,  my  lord.     The  barons'  arms 
Outnumber  all  the  feeble  prelacy. 

Alb.  Thinks  we  '11  stop  with  Kent  when  Henry  stands 
Defenceless  'fore  us?     Come!     We  too  must  ride. 

Pern.  Proud  Poitevin !     He  plots  to  lose  his  head, 
And  give  this  land  a  king  indeed ! 

Alb.  My  Pembroke! 

[Exeunt.     An  attendant  opens  tlie  large  doors,  rear,  lady 
Albemarle  and  the  princess  Margaret  enter} 

La.  Alb.    What!  no  one  here?    We  have  not  seen  a  soul 
But  the  poor  fool  who  brought  us  food  and  wine. 
I'll  not  endure  it!     Are  we  prisoners? 
Mewed  up  these  hours,  when  all  about  there's  stir 
As  Fate  changed  hands  and  rumbled  destiny. 
Such  clattering,  shifting,  revel,  and  "To  horse!" 
And  we  mope  here  like  toothless  dames  that  long 
Have  lost  the  world! 

Ait.  Your  ladyship,  the  king 

Will  see  you  here. 

La.  Alb.  That's  better.     He  shall  beg 

My  pardon.     [Seats  herself] 

Mar.  How  canst  think  of  things  so  slight 
When  even  now  your  brother  may  be  lost? 


50  LORDS    AND    LOVERS 

La.  Alb.  I  lose  no  kingdom  with  him.     That's   your 

theme, 
And,  lord,  you  don't  neglect  it. 

Mar.  [Walking  away  from  her]  O,  for  word ! 
Surely  some  word  has  come! 

La.  Alb.  Would  I  were  home! 

'Twas  you,  my  lady,  put  this  journey  on  me 
With  prating  of  my  duty  to  my  brother. 
But  I  know  why  you  came. 

Mar.  O  me,  you  know? 

La.  Alb.  That  does  not  mark  me  wise.     A  fool  might 
guess. 

Mar.  O,  I  am  lost !     Dear  lady,  be  my  friend ! 

La.  Alb.  Why  such  a  fluttering  like  a  lass  in  folly? 
The  king  was  here,  and  'twas  mere  wit  in  you 
To  follow  after,  making  me  your  foil. 

Mar.  The  king? 

La.  Alb.  Ay,  ay,  the  king!    I  understand 

Your  cry  about  my  brother. 

Mar.  O! 

La.  Alb.  Why  such  an  "O!" 

As  though  you'd  swallow  all  the  air  i'  the  room 
And  kill  me  with  vacuity. 

Mar.  Ah,  madam! 

La.  Alb.  You'll  not  have  long  to  wait.     He'll  be  here 
soon. 

Mar.  O,  then  you  think  he's  safe? 

La.  Alb.  I  think  he's  safe? 

Why  should  he  not  be  safe? 

Mar.  Could  I  believe  it ! 

La.  Alb.  His  truest  lords  are  with  him.     Albemarle 
Himself  is  guard  sufficient. 

Mar.  Albemarle? 

He  is  not  with  your  brother! 

La.  Alb.  Brother?     Pah! 


LORDS    AND    LOVERS  51 

How  you  draw  off  and  on,  as  'twere  a  shame 
To  love  a  king! 

Mar.  The  king?     Ah— I 

La.  Alb.  You  ask 

If  he  is  safe,  and  I  say  safe  enough, 
Then  drops  the  curtain  of  your  modesty, 
And  you  cry  of  my  brother.     Faith,  you'll  have 
Me  set  about  with  this  till  I  believe 
My  brother  is  the  king  of  England ! 

Mar.  O, 

I'm  wretched,  wretched! 

La.  Alb.  Patience!     He'll  be  here. 
True,  'tis  most  beggarly  of  him  to  lag, 
But  do  not  doubt  he'll  come. 

Mar.  He  will  not  come. 

O,  never,  never,  never! 

La.  Alb.  Foolish  lass ! 

He  can  not  stay  away  from  you — his  wife. 
I  might  as  well  be  out  with  't  soon  as  late. 

Mar.  O,  lady — countess — if  you  e'er  had  need 
Of  gentle  friends 

La.  Alb.  I  know  not  what  to  do 

With  this  strange  piece  of  daintiness.     Up,  mistress! 
How  will  you  blush  when  Henry  calls  you  wife, 
If  I,  in  play,  can  throw  you  on  your  knees? 

M ar.  Henry?     God  pity  me!     I  am  so  racked! 

La.  Alb.  Thou  art  a  fool!     Up,  girl,  there's  some  one 

comes. 

If  't  be  the  king !     Quick  now,  and  smooth  your  face. 
If  he  should  wonder  at  this  trace  of  tears, 
I'll  tell  him  why  you  wept. 

Mar.  You  could  not  be 

So  cruel ! 

La.  Alb.  Cruel?     How?     'Twill  please  him  well 
To  hear  you  wept  for  him. 


52  LORDS    AND    LOVERS 

Mar.  For  him? 

[Enter  attendant] 

Alt.  The  king. 

La.  Alb.  Now,  now,  be  still.     He  comes. 
[Enter  Henry] 

Hen.  My  duty  to 

My  fair  and  honored  guests.     And  my  first  suit 
Is  for  your  pardon  that  I  come  so  late ; 
My  next  is  still  for  pardon  I  must  haste 
Unto  my  third,  and  pray  the  lady  Margaret 
For  word  with  her  alone. 

La.  Alb.  I  will  withdraw, 

My  lord. 

Hen.  [To  attendants]  Attend  the  countess. 

Mar.  O !  dear  Heaven ! 

Hen.  Are  you  at  prayers,  sweet  lady? 

Mar.  Say  I  am, 

Can  women  pray  too  much,  who  need  so  oft 
The  soft  protection  of  the  holy  skies? 

Hen.  Have  I  been  slack  in  care?     Ah,  Margaret, 
Let  youth  excuse  neglect  the  past  may  know. 
In  future 

Mar.  O,  thou  hast  been  all  I  wish! 

Hen.  All?     All,  Margaret?    You've  been  in  England 
Ten  years  or  more,  and  understand,  I  think, 
Why  you,  a  child,  were  sent  unto  our  court. 

Mar.  My  lord,  when  peace  was  made  with  Scotland's 

king, 

I  was  included  in  the  arbitrament, 
But  am  uncertain  of  the  precise  terms, 
Though  I  dare  think  there  was  no  mention  made 
Of  marriage. 

Hen.          There  was  a  dowry  paid 
To  English  coffers. 

Mar.  Dowry?     Ah,  was  't  not 


LORDS    AND    LOVERS  53 

A  dainty  serving  of  too  humble  pie? 

Mere  specious  covering  for  indemnity 

Proud  Scotland  would  not  pay  by  such  a  name? 

Hen.  May  be,  but  'twas  held  wise  to  join  the  kingdoms 
By  current  of  our  blood. 

Mar.  True  at  that  time 

'Twas  best  for  England  to  make  closer  ties 
"NVi*  the  north,  but  now  is  Scotland  on  her  knees, 
And  you  have  naught  to  fear  if  you  should  choose 
To  set  aside  my  claim. 

Hen.  The  people's  eyes 

Are  on  you  as  their  queen. 

Mar.  They  will  approve 

As  readily  if  you  make  other  choice. 

Hen.  Then  't  seems  we  both  are  free  to  follow  love 
In  any  court  we  please. 

Mar.  In  truth,  my  lord! 

Hen.  And  you  reject  me? 

Mar.  I  am  not  so  bold 

Hen.  But,  lady,  in  the  world's  mouth  you  will  be 
My  cast  off  love,  for  who  is  there  so  wise 
As  to  believe  you  would  refuse  a  king? 

Mar.  I  care  not,  sir!    AVhat  is  the  world  to  me? 
O,  let  it  think  as  'twill,  if  only 

Hen.  Ah, 

If  only  you  are  saved  from  me?     But,  madam, 
I  can  not  flip  the  world  away  as  you. 
It  is  my  field  of  tourney  where  I  joust 
For  fame  and  tender  reputation. 
I  must  not  let  men  point  to  you  and  say 
"See  Henry's  fool!"    You  shall  be  wed  at  once 
Unto  the  lord  most  powerful  in  England 
Who  yet  is  free. 

Mar.  O,  sir 

Hen.  The  earl  of  Kent. 


54  LORDS    AND    LOVERS 

Mar.  Your  majesty,  be  merciful! 

Hen.  I  am. 

Mar.  My  knees  were  bending  to  you  thankfully, 
But  you  have  changed  their  purpose  to  a  prayer 
For  veriest  pity.     The  earl  of  Kent,  my  lord? 
An  old,  fierce  man,  who  scorns  the  name  of  love? 

Hen.  To  you  he  will  be  kind.     I'll  stake  my  crown, 
Once  wed  to  him  you'll  thank  me  for  this  day, 
And  swear  you'd  choose  him  yours  from  all  the  world. 
He's  in  the  castle  now.     I'll  send  him  here, 
For  I'm  in  haste  to  bring  the  marriage  on. 
Wait  here,  sweet  Margaret. 

[Opens  doors  rear,  and  she  passes  slowly  through] 

Mar.  Kill  me,  my  lord! 

Hen.  Now,  by  these  tears,  you'll  live  to  bless  me  yet, 
For  from  my  heart  I  swear  you're  better  wed 
Than  if  you  chose  the  king. 

[Closes  doors  and  calls  attendant] 

Ho,  there! 

[Enter  attendant]  I'll  see 
The  earl  of  Kent.     Bid  him  come  in. 

[Exit  attendant]  'Tis  cruel, 
But  right  they  should  be  punished  who  forgot 
A  king  to  please  themselves. 

[Enter  Hubert] 

Hub.  Your  majesty! 

Hen.  How  now,  my  chancellor?     Methinks  this  day 
Should  mark  the  high  note  of  thy  singing  heart. 
But  thou  art  gloomy,  as  weighing  still  thy  chance 
Against  the  flocking  French.     Canst  not  be  merry 
If  Henry  bids  thee,  Hubert? 

Hub.  Ah,  my  lord, 

I  little  thought  to  have  escaped  the  foe. 

Hen.  Is  that  to  grieve  on,  man?     By  Heaven,  I'll  think 
It  would  have  pleased  you  better  to  have  sunk 


LORDS    AND    LOVERS  55 

My  fleet  and  not  the  enemy's.     Come,  come! 
What  think  you  of  the  fortune  we've  assigned  you? 
Art  satisfied? 

Hub.  O,  'tis  not  to  be  borne! 

Hen.  F  faith,  thou  'rt  plain. 

Hub.  O,  dear  my  liege,  I  mean 

H en.  Well,  sir,  I  have  another  blessing  for  thee 
May  prove  more  welcome.     How  wouldst  like  a  wife 
Of  royal  blood?     I  will  not  tell  her  name, 
But  take  my  word  that  were  my  heart  not  bound 
I'd  look  her  way  for  fetters.     She  is  fair, 
Ay,  perfect  as  the  lily  plucked  to  grace 
A  Lord's  day  altar,  yet  is  proud  enough 
To  hold  your  new-dropped  dignities  above 
The  mire  and  brambles  of  the  common  way; 
And  all  this,  sir,  shall  be  your  wadded  wife. 

Hub.  My  lord 

H  en.  Nay,  do  not  thank  me.     Ah,  at  last 
I've  touched  the  key  of  gratitude.     Indeed, 
My  Hubert,  you  are  pale  with  this  new  joy. 
I  almost  fear  to  tell  you  she  is  there — 
Within  that  room — and  waiting  your  approach. 

Hub.  My  royal  lord — I  beg 

Hen.  No,  not  a  word 

Of  thanks. 

Hub.       Not  thanks!     There's  something  else  to  say! 

Hen.  What,   sir?     W7ouldst  still  play  hang-lip  at  thy 
fortune? 

Hub.  Hear  me,  your  majesty! 

Hen.  Nay,  I  will  speak. 

Sir,  I  have  done  what  monarchs  seldom  do, 
Proclaimed  my  general  worthy  of  his  hire, 
And  paid  it,  too,  and  these  sour  looks  from  you 
Are  as  the  poisonous  leaves  in  a  fair  garland 
Marking  it  for  decay.     I've  yielded  much 


56  LORDS    AND    LOVERS 

Unto  your  noble  merit,  but  no  more 
Will  yield  to  your  proud  humor ! 

Hub.  Hear,  my  lord 

Hen.  No  words!     There  is  the  door.     Go  in  and  find 
The  lady  that  must  be  your  wife,  or  down 
Come  all  your  brave  new  honors  to  the  ground! 

[Opens  door  and  forces  him  through.     Margaret  is  lying 
on  the  floor,  her  face  hidden] 

Hub.  O,  Heaven!     'Tis  Margaret! 

Mar.         O!     [Leaps  up,  gazes  at  Hubert  and  runs  to 
his  arms]         Hubert,  Hubert ! 

[The  king  closes  the  doors  upon  them] 

Hen.  The  midnight's  past.     I  must  away  to  Glaia, 
And  by  the  sunrise  at  her  window  sing. 
My  lords  are  set  toward  London.     None  shall  know, 
Save  Cupid's  self,  how  far  I  ride  to-night. 

[Curtain] 


ACT    IV 

SCENE   1.  Near  the  cottage  in  Greenot  woods.     Henry, 
with  lute,  singing. 

Ope,  throw  ope  thy  bower  door, 

And  come  thou  forth,  my  sweet! 
'Tis  morn,  the  watch  of  love  is  o'er, 

And  mating  hearts  should  meet. 
The  stars  have  fled  arid  left  their  grace 
In  ever}7  blossom's  lifted  face, 
And  gentle  shadows  fleck  the  light 
With  tender  memories  of  the  night. 
Sweet,  there's  a  door  to  every  shrine; 
Wilt  thou,  as  morning,  open  thine? 
Hark!   now  the  lark  has  met  the  clouds, 

And  rains  his  sheer  melodious  flood; 
The  green  earth  casts  her  mystic  shrouds 

To  meet  the  flaming  god ! 
Alas,  for  me  there  is  no  dawn 
If  Glaia  come  not  with  the  sun. 

[Enter  Glaia.     The  king  kneels  as  she  approaches} 
Gla.  'Tis  you! 

Hen.  [Leaping  up]  Pardoned !  Queen  of  this  bowerland, 
Your  glad  eyes  tell  me  that  I  have  not  sinned. 

Gla.  How  cam'st  thou  here?     Now  who  plays  Hubert 

false? 

Nay,  I'm  too  glad  thou  'rt  come  to  question  so. 
'Tis  easy  to  forgive  the  treachery 
That  opes  our  gates  to  angels. 

57 


58  LORDS    AND    LOVERS 

Hen.  O,  I'm  loved? 

Gla.  Yes,  Henry.     All  the  morn  I've  thought  of  you, 
And  I  rose  early,  for  I  love  to  say 
Good-by  to  my  dear  stars ;  they  seem  so  wan 
And  loath  to  go  away,  as  though  they  know 
The  fickle  world  is  thinking  of  the  sun, 
And  all  their  gentle  service  of  the  night 
Is  quite  forgot. 

Hen.  And  what  didst  think  of  me? 

Gla.  That  could  you  come  and  see  this  beauteous  wood, 
Fair  with  Spring's  love  and  morning's  kiss  of  grace, 
You'd  be  content  to  live  awhile  with  me, 
Leave  war's  red  step  to  follow  living  May 
Passing  to  pour  her  veins'  immortal  flood 
To  each  decaying  root;  and  rest  by  springs 
Where  waters  run  to  sounds  less  rude  than  song, 
And  hiding  sibyls  stir  sweet  prophecies. 

H en.  The  only  springs  I  seek  are  in  your  eyes 
That  nourish  all  the  desert  of  myself. 
Drop  here,  O,  Glaia,  thy  transforming  dews, 
And  start  fair  summer  in  this  waste  of  me ! 

Gla.  Poor  Henry!     What  dost  know  of  me  to  love? 

Hen.  See  yon  light  cloud  half-kirtled  with  faint  rose? 
What  do  I  know  of  it  but  that  'tis  fair? 
And  yet  I  dream  'twas  born  of  flower  dews 
And  goes  to  some  sweet  country  of  the  sky. 
So  cloud-like  dost  thou  move  before  my  love, 
From  beauty  coming  that  I  may  not  see, 
To  beauty  going  that  I  can  but  dream. 
O,  love  me,  Glaia !     Give  to  me  this  hand, 
This  miracle  of  warm,  unmelting  snow, 
This  lily  bit  of  thee  that  in  my  clasp 
Lies  like  a  dove  in  all  too  rude  a  cote — 
Wee  heaven-cloud  to  drop  on  monarch  brows 
And  smooth  the  ridgy  traces  of  a  crown ! 


LORDS    AND    LOVERS  59 

Rich  me  with  this,  and  I'll  not  fear  to  dare 
The  darkest  shadow  of  defeat  that  broods 
O'er  sceptres  and  unfriended  kings. 

Gla.  Why  talk 

Of  crowns  and  kings?     This  is  our  home,  dear  Henry. 
For  if  you  love  me  you  will  stay  with  me. 

Hen.  Ah,  blest  to  be  here,  and  from  morning's  top 
Review  the  sunny  graces  of  the  world, 
Plucking  the  smilingest  to  dearer  love, 
Until  the  heart  becomes  the  root  and  spring 
Of  hopes  as  natural  and  as  simply  sweet 
As  these  bright  children  of  the  wedded  sun 
And  dewy  earth! 

Gla.  I  knew  you'd  stay,  my  brother! 

You'll  live  with  me! 

Hen.                      But  there's  a  world  not  this, 
O'er-roofed  and  fretted  by  ambition's  arch, 
\Vhose  sun  is  power  and  whose  rains  are  blood, 
Whose  iris  bow  is  the  small  golden  hoop 
That  rims  the  forehead  of  a  king, — a  world 
Where  trampling  armies  and  sedition's  march 
Cut  off  the  flowers  of  descanting  love 
Ere  they  may  sing  their  perfect  word  to  man, 
And  the  rank  weeds  of  envies,  jealousies, 
Push  up  each  night  from  day's  hot-beaten  paths 

Gla.  O,  do  not  tell  me,  do  not  think  of  it ! 

Hen.  I  must.     There  is  my  world,  and  there  my  life 
Must  grow  to  gracious  end,  if  so  it  can. 
If  thou  wouldst  come,  my  living  periapt, 
With  virtue's  gentle  legend  overwrit, 
I  should  not  fail,  nor  would  this  flower  cheek, 
Pure  lily  cloister  of  a  praying  rose, 
E'er  know  the  stain  of  one  despoiling  tear 
Shed  for  me  graceless.     Will  you  come,  my  Glaia? 

Gla.  Into  that  world?     No,  thou  shalt  stay  with  me. 


60  LORDS    AND    LOVERS 

Here  you  shall  be  a  king,  not  serve  one.     Ah, 

The  whispering  winds  do  never  counsel  false, 

And  senatorial  trees  droop  not  their  state 

To  tribe  and  treachery.     Nature's  self  shall  be 

Your  minister,  the  seasons  your  envoys 

And  high  ambassadors,  bearing  from  His  court 

The  mortal  olive  of  immortal  love. 

Hen.  To  man  my  life  belongs.     Hope  not,  dear  Glaia, 
To  bind  me  here ;  and  if  you  love  me  true, 
You  will  not  ask  me  where  I  go  or  stay, 
But  that  your  feet  may  stay  or  go  with  mine. 
Let  not  a  nay  unsweet  those  tender  lips 
That  all  their  life  have  ripened  for  this  kiss. 

[Kisses  her] 

O  ruby  purities !    I  would  not  give 
Their  chaste  extravagance  for  fruits  Iran 
Stored  with  the  honey  of  a  thousand  suns 
Through  the  slow  measure  of  as  many  years! 

Gla.  Do  brothers  talk  like  that? 

Hen.  I  think  not,  sweet. 

Gla.  But  you  will  be  my  brother? 

Hen.  We  shall  see. 

Gla.  And  you  will  stay  with  me?    No?     Ah,  I  fear 
All  that  you  love  in  me  is  born  of  these 
Wild  innocences  that  I  live  among, 
And  far  from  here,  all  such  sweet  value  lost, 
I'll  be  as  others  are  in  your  mad  world, 
Or  wither  mortally,  even  as  the  sprig 
A  moment  gone  so  pertly  trimmed  this  bough. 
Let  us  stay  here,  my  Henry.     We  shall  be 
Dear  playmates  ever,  never  growing  old, — 
Or  if  we  do  'twill  be  at  such  a  pace 
Time  will  grow  weary  chiding,  leaving  us 
To  come  at  will. 

H en.  No,  Glaia.     Even  now 


LORDS    AND    LOVERS  61 

I  must  be  gone.     I  came  for  this — to  say 
I'd  come  again,  and  bid  you  watch  for  me. 
A  tear?     O,  love!     One  moment,  then  away! 

[Exeunt.     Curtain] 

SCENE  2.  A  street  in  London.     Citizens,  friars,  priests, 
pass  in  devout  manner,  some  bearing  crucifixes. 

First  Cit.  x\  day,  a  day,  O,  such  a  day! 

Second  Cit.  'Twill  make  a  new  page  in  our  chronicles, 
the  like  ne'er  read  before. 

Third  Cit.  Nay,  when  Saxon  Edward  came  back  from 
conquered  Wales — - — 

Fourth  Cit.  Ay,  'twas  such  a  day  of  holy  joy! 

Second  Cit.  But  not  so  general. 

First  Cit.  And  guards  with  arms  kept  order  in  the 
streets. 

Third  Cit.  But  now  there's  no  authority  abroad  save 
that  comes  from  our  hearts.  Surely  the  air  is  charged 
with  drug  of  peace,  and  all  men  breathe  it. 

First  Cit.  Where  meets  the  council?  In  the  Tower 
chamber? 

Third  Cit.  Nay,  at  Westminster  palace. 

Second  Cit.  That's  three  miles. 

We  must  push  on  if  we  would  see  them  enter. 

[They  move  off] 

First  Friar.  How  meanly  does  it  speak  for  this  proud 

world 

That  when  the  devil  lays  his  weapons  by 
And  peace  and  love  for  one  day  reign  o'er  all, 
That  it  should  wonder  at  itself,  and  cry 
"A  miracle!" 

Second  Friar.  In  holy  Edward's  time, 

The  nuns  of  Beda  joined  the  council  in 


62  LORDS    AND    LOVERS 

Concerted  praise,  for  'twas  their  prayerful  fast 
Kept  Heaven  with  the  king  and  gave  us  Wales; 
And  'twas  decreed  that  ever  on  such  days 
The  nuns  from  this  most  blest  and  ancient  abbey 
Should  with  the  great  assembly  kneel  in  praise. 

First  Friar.  And   so  they  do  this  day.     The  legate, 

Gualo, 
Sent  invitation  from  the  king. 

Second  Friar.  The  king? 

This  shows  most  well  in  him. 

First  Friar.  If  we  haste  on, 

We'll  see  the  sisters  passing  toward  the  palace. 

Second  Friar.  Let  's  forward  then.     God  save  so  good 
a  king! 

[Exeunt.     Curtain] 


SCENE  3.  The  great  hall  in  Westminster.  Barons  and 
prelates  assembled.  Rich  surcoats  open,  revealing  arms. 
Enter  Henry  and  the  earl  of  Kent. 

Hen.  My  lords,  is  this  the  faith  you  keep  with  kings? 
Then  Heaven  save  me  from  it !    Was  't  not  your  will 
This  day  all  arms  should  hang  upon  the  wall? 
Yet  you  come  here  as  though  the  trump  had  called 
To  sudden  battle. 

Canterbury.         Hear,  your  majesty, 
The  cause  for  which  we  laid  upon  our  souls 
This  seeming  perjury,  and  you'll  forgive 
As  Heaven,  calling  it  no  stain. 

Hen.  Sir,  let 

The  movers  of  this  saintly  shift  speak  first. 
You,  Winchester?     You,  Albemarle?     Canst  preach 
The  lie  away? 

Alb.  My  honored  liege,  these  swords, 


LORDS    AND    LOVERS  63 

Surer  than  bended  knees,  bespeak  your  safety. 

Knowing  that  treachery  oft  defames  the  ranks 

Of  those  who  shine  as  the  highpriests  of  God, 

I  and  my  brother  barons  came  thus  armed, 

Thinking  it  better  so  to  break  our  oaths 

Than  that  false  hands  should  break  your  kingly  staff. 

Hen.  For  my  protection  then  you  do  offend? 

Alb.  For  that  alone,  my  liege,  we  wear  this  armor. 

Hen.  And  you,  lord  bishop,  guardian  of  our  person 
By  prayer  and  Heavenly  counsel, — who  even  in  war 
Should  wear  no  sword  but  that  of  righteousness, — 
Confess  you  with  these  warlike  blades  thy  Lord 
Unable  to  defend  his  own? 

Win.  My  liege, 

'Tis  in  His  name,  to  work  His  equal  justice, 
^Ye  bear  these  weapons,  sacred  by  our  cause. 
[Enter  Gualo] 

Gua.  Your  majesty,  the  nuns  of  Beda's  abbey 
^Yould  enter  now. 

Cant.  The  nuns?     What  do  they  here? 

Hen.  You  know,  your  grace,  since  blessed  Edward's  time 
'T  has  been  their  privilege  on  days  of  prayer 
To  join  their  voices  with  the  court  and  state. 

Cant.  A  privilege,  but  never  yet  in  practice. 

Hen.  The  more  is  England's  shame  that  has  not  seen 
For  so  long  past  a  day  of  general  prayer 
And  utter  peace.     Not  in  our  time,  nor  John's, 
Nor  Richard's  'fore  him,  nay,  nor  greater  Henry's, 
Might  Beda's  sisters  claim  this  privilege. 
Lord  Cardinal,  bid  them  in.  [Exit  Gualo] 

Alb.  Nay,  nay,  my  liege, 

This  is  no  place  for  women. 

Hen.  Are  they  not 

Forever  foremost  in  both  prayer  and  peace? 
By  Heaven's  King,  they've  more  right  here  than  we! 


64  LORDS    AND    LOVERS 

[Enter  nuns,  led  by  the  abbess,  who  kneels   before  the 
king] 

Hen.  Rise,  holy  abbess. 

Abb.  Sovereign  of  England, 

May  Heaven's  Sovereign  protect  thy  youth! 
And  as  thy  hand  is  on  thy  sceptre  laid 
Feel  there  the  Hand  invisible  from  whence 
Thy  power  comes,  and  know  thy  way  as  His. 

[Henry   bows    his   head.     The    abbess   and   nuns   pass 
to  a  station  apart  and  kneel] 

Hen.  Say  on,  lord  bishop.     Let  us  hear  how  priests 
May  break  an  oath  and  Heaven  smile  upon  it. 

Win    These  papers,  dearest  liege,  are  warrant  for  us. 
There  is  one  here  so  steeped  in  guilt,  the  pope 
Commands  his  sentence  by  our  Spiritual  Court; 
And  knowing  crime  so  deep  makes  fierce  defence, 
We  came  thus  armed. 

Hen.  Who  of  my  subjects  is  so  basely  given 
The  pope  must  urge  the  sword  of  justice  gainst  him? 

Win.  He  is  so  high  in  your  esteem,  my  liege 

Hen.  Now  were  he  next  ourself,  our  very  love, 
Excepting  one,  the  noble  earl  of  Kent, 
Whom  only  calumny  dare  censure,  we 
Should  yield  him  to  thee. 

Win.  So?     Then  we  did  well 

To  wear  these  arms,  for  'tis  no  less  than  Kent 
Whom  we  accuse. 

Hen.  Kent?     Ha!    We'll  hear  your  tale 

That  we  may  laugh  at  it. 

Win.  You'll  sooner  weep, 

I  fear.     The  princess  Adelais,  of  France, 
Is  free  of  the  infliction  that  impaired 
Her  noble  mind,  and  through  the  pope  makes  suit 
For  the  recovery  of  a  son — her  child 
And  the  great  Henry's.     Gualo  brings  this  letter, 


LORDS    AND    LOVERS  65 

Beneath  the  pope's  own  seal,  to  England's  primate, 

His  grace  of  Canterbury.     It  is  signed 

By  Geoffrey  de  Burgh,  the  father  of  your  Kent, 

And  written  five  years  back  to  Adelais, 

In  care  of  's  Holiness,  with  the  request 

That  it  be  given  her  should  she  recover. 

The  purport  is — her  child  has  lived  to  be 

A  grace  to  manhood,  but  that  he  himself 

Approaches  death,  and  from  his  worthy  son, 

Hubert  de  Burgh,  she  may  in  proper  time 

Learn  all  a  mother's  heart  would  know. 

Hen.  Well  plotted! 

Win.  And  here's  another  paper  that  great  Pembroke, 
Dying,  laid  in  my  hands.     It  bears  the  seal 
Of  Henry  Second,  and  tells  how  his  son 
And  Adelais'  is  given  to  the  charge 
Of  Geoffrey  de  Burgh,  lord  keeper  of  the  Tower 
And  Dover  Castle. 

Hen.  Keep  your  paper,  sir! 

Dost  think  that  I'll  believe  these  parchment  tales 
Of  one  wiiose  stainless  past  the  world  may  read? 

Win.  That  precious  past,  sire,  is  the  bed  whereon 
This  deed's  embossed.     All  he  has  done  that's  noble 
Now  serves  to  make  this  foul.     Look  at  him  now! 
He  has  no  word,  but  stands  as  one  made  stiff 
By  sin's  confrontment. 

Hen.  Rather  like  the  god 

Was  caught  'twixt  the  burning  and  the  frozen  worlds, 
For  so  my  too-warm  love  and  your  deep  hate 
Engulf  him. 

Win.        Hear  the  end,  my  liege. 

Hen.  Go  on, 

If  there's  an  end. 

Win.  This  says  that  Henry's  son, 

Arrived  at  thirty  years,  shall  take  his  place 


66  LORDS    AND    LOVERS 

'Mong  English  nobles  as  the  Duke  of  Bedford, 
And  hold  in  fief  five  castles,  herein  named 
Rockingham,  Harle,  Beham  and  Fotheringay, 
With  strongest  Bedford  as  his  ducal  seat; 
But  if  the  child  should  die,  his  great  estate 
Shall  to  the  church,  and  in  the  church's  naine 
I  call  De  Burgh  to  show  the  heir,  or  prove 
That  he  is  dead  and  by  no  hidden  means. 

Kent.  The  devil,  sir,  must  pay  you  bounteous  hire, 
You  sweat  so  in  his  service.     Naught  I  know 
Of  ghostly  Bedford,  or  ever  heard  of  him, 
Or  that  my  father  held  a  ward  in  charge. 

Hen.  We  know  you  innocent. 

Win.  Then  let  him  prove 

His  claim  to  these  five  castles.     Two  he  holds, 
And  three  were  given  in  dowry  with  his  sister 
When  she  became  the  wife  of  Albemarle. 
These  must  he  yield,  or  show  that  Bedford  lives, 
Else  will  the  church  by  force  possess  its  own. 

Alb.  Mad  Winchester!    You  plot  too  heavy  here. 
You  know  there  are  no  stronger  forts  in  England 
Than  these  three  castles  that  the  countess  brought  me, 
And  you'd  command  their  strength  in  wars  against 
The  power  of  the  barons!    Yield  these  forts? 
Not  while  I've  breath  to  fight  for  what's  my  own! 
Geoffrey  de  Burgh  received  them  from  great  Henry 
For  secret,  valiant  service,  such  as  knights 
Have  rarely  given  kings.     Talk  you  of  force? 
My  sword  shall  answer  you.     I  will  not  yield, 
And  here  declare  a  war!     What  say  you,  barons? 

Pern.  Your  cause  is  ours,  and  here  we  draw  our  swords ! 

Alb.  You  hear,  lord  bishop.     Moreover  we  must  take 
The  person  of  the  king,  nor  longer  risk 
His  majesty  with  traitors.     Come,  my  liege. 

Cant.  What!     Take  the  king? 


LORDS    AND    LOVERS  67 

Alb.  Ay,  take  the  king! 

Win.  While  grace 

In  Heaven  lives,  well  keep  him  from  your  clutch! 

Alb.  While  we  are  barons  and  can  lift  a  sword, 
We  will  defy  you  and  protect  the  king! 

Hen.  I  am  a  monarch,  and  will  go  or  stay 
As  I  do  please.     Lord  barons,  not  with  you. 

Pern.  Ah,  must  we  force  you,  sir? 

Win.  Not  from  our  hands! 

Alb.  An  you  do  stir,  my  iord  of  Winchester, 
We'U  wash  these  floors  with  blood! 

Cant.  The  king  is  ours! 

Alb.  Swords  write  our  title!    Strike,  my  friends! 

Hen.  God,  no! 

Win.  Stay,  Albemarle!    We  do  not  well  to  waste 
The  life  of  England.     If  we  yield  the  king, 
Will  you  give  up  the  castles? 

Pern.  [To  Albemarle]     Say  you  will. 
The  king  once  ours  we'll  keep  the  castles,  too. 

Alb.  [To  WincJwster]  Then  rest  it  there.     Give  us  the 

king,  and  take 

The  castles.     [Aside]  If  you  can.     Ay,  there  '11  be  wars 
Will  make  each  stone  of  England  mine.     The  rocks 
And  cliffs  I'll  mark  with  name  of  Albemarle! 

Win.     [To  Henry]     Think  not  I  risk  your  dear  and 

royal  life. 

I'll  call  out  troops  till  trees  do  seem  to  walk 
And  cry  for  God  and  Henry!     [To  barons]     To  your  care 
We  yield  the  king. 

Pern.  Then,  Henry,  come  with  us. 

Hen.  Plain  Henry,  now  thy  crown  is  gilt 

Pern.  Well  put 

No  pressure  on  your  liberty  save  that 
We  must  t'  enforce  our  charter  rights. 

Win.  De  Burgh 


68  LORDS    AND    LOVERS 

Must  to  the  Tower,  there  to  await  our  judgment. 
Lords  Goly  and  De  Vere,  conduct  him  thither. 

Goly.  Come,  sir.     You  will  not  move? 

Kent.  O,  Margaret, 

Your  love  divined  too  well !     Now  for  the  sword 
You  bade  me  bring,  and  he  who  first  should  lay 
A  hand  upon  me 

De  Vere.  Come! 

Pern.  [To  the  king]  And  you  with  us. 

Kent.  Hark,  lamb,  the  wolves  are  at  thee! 

Goly.  Must  we  move  you? 

Abb.  [Coming  down]  Off  with  your  hands,  in  warrior 

Michael's  name! 

Touch  not  De  Burgh!     And  you — lord  barons — you 
Who  blow  the  gentle  fires  of  this  new  peace 
With  wind  of  your  hot  tempers — free  the  king, 
And  wait  as  fathers  on  his  tender  years ! 

Alb.  I  said,  my  lords,  we  should  have  prating  here. 

Abb.  The  midnight  vision  and  long  hours  of  prayer 
Give  us  strange  powers,  and  we  see  thoughts  burn 
In  your  intent  would  strike  their  fire  against 
The  stars  of  war  and  light  disaster  o'er 
A  shuddering  world.     But  you 

Alb.  Back  to  your  beads! 

^466.  We'll  count  our  beads  in  your  fast  dropping  blood ! 
Wouldst  try  our  swords  and  see  if  they  be  keen? 
And  if  you  scorn  mine  in  a  woman's  hand, 
Here  is  the  hand  shall  bear  it  to  your  woe. 

[Takes  sword  from  under  her  cloak  and  gives  it  to 
Kent.  All  the  nuns  rise,  drop  their  cloaks  and 
show  themselves  to  be  armed  men.  The  abbess 
throws  off  her  hood  and  stands  revealed  as  Mar 
garet] 

Hen.  My  guards ! 

Kent.  My  soldiers! 


LORDS    AND    LOVERS  69 

Mar.  Kent  will  not  to  Tower 

While  Margaret  of  Scotland  is  his  wife. 

Cant.  Princess,  the  day  is  yours,  and  I,  for  one, 
Thank  Heaven  'tis  so. 

Win.  And  I. 

Mar.  Contentious  lords, 

Forget  one  hour  that  ye  are  baron-peers, 
And  churchmen  clambering  to  the  pinnacle 
Topped  with  a  cardinal's  cap.     Think  ye  are  men 
Of  England,  whose  dear  duty  is  to  her, 
And  swear  ye  brothers  as  ye  are  her  sons. 
Down  on  your  knees!    Ask  pardon  of  your  king! 

Win.  [Kneeling]  O,  sovereign  liege,  in  all  I  said  and  did 
My  conscience  led  me  and  my  God  did  counsel. 
If  'tis  a  sin  to  seek  the  punishment 
Of  one  whom  we  believe  has  wronged  your  blood, 
Then  have  we  sinned  indeed. 

Hen.  Wilt  swear  to  drop 

This  charge  'gainst  noble  Kent,  whose  honest  soul 
Will  cloak  such  guilt  when  north  winds  blow  their  frost 
From  bosom  of  the  sun? 

Win.  I  swear,  my  lord, 

That  your  own  lips  shall  be  the  first  to  make 
Renewal  of  this  charge. 

Hen.  Rise,  Winchester. 

You  are  forgiven,  but  not  yet  may  take 
Your  old  place  in  our  heart. 

[Albemarle  and  Pembroke  kneel] 

Alb.  Were  thoughts  of  men 

WTrit  on  the  heart's  red  walls,  this  sword,  my  liege, 
Should  open  mine  that  you  might  read  me  clear 
Of  all  intent  save  truest  care  for  thee. 

Pern.  And  I,  my  king,  sought  but  the  good  of  England 
In  all  too  harshly  crying  for  the  rights 
Of  your  long  loyal  barons. 

Hen.  Rise,  my  lords. 


70  LORDS    AND    LOVERS 

We  hold  you  not  attainted,  but  awhile 

Must  look  with  careful  coldness  on  your  love, 

Till  by  your  lives  we  test  this  swift  repentance. 

Alb.  O  sovereign  merciful,  we  ask  no  more 
Than  thus  to  prove  us  true. 

Hen.  Now  let  this  day 

Be  given  as  we  intended,  to  His  praise 
Whose  eye  doth  search  the  closet  of  the  dark 
As  freely  as  the  dayplains  of  the  sun, 
And  reads  the  minds  of  men  where  kings  must  trust. 

[Curtain] 


LORDS    AND    LOVERS 
PART  II 


CHARACTERS    OF    THE    PLAY 


HENRY  III,  King  of  England 

EARL  OF  KENT 

EARL  OF  ALBEMARLE 

EARL  OF  PEMBROKE 

ARCHBISHOP  OF  CANTERBURY 

BISHOP  OF  WINCHESTER 

LORD  WYNNE 

COUNT  DE  ROUILLET,  attending  Adelais 

STEPHEN  GODFREY,  a  soldier 

ORSON,  a  servant  to  Glaia 

ADELAIS,  a  princess  of  France 
MARGARET,  wife  of  Kent 
ELEANOR,  wife  of  Albemark 
GLAIA,  ward  of  Kent 
ELDRA,  servant  to  Glaia 

Lords  and  ladies  of  the  court,  barons,  prelates,  guards,  attendants,  &c. 

TIME:    13^  Century 
SCENE:    England 


ACT   I 

SCENE  1.  Autumn  in  Greenot  woods  near  Glaia's  cottage. 
Table,  seats,  mugs  and  ale.  Enter  Eldra  with  a  plate 
of  cakes. 

Eld.  [Putting  plate  on  table]  It's  the  very  day  and  hour 
he'll  be  coming,  and  he's  not  the  man  to  count  leaves  by 
the  roadside.  He  likes  my  cookin',  as  I've  had  proof, 
and  he  looks  so  cunnin '  at  me  lately  I  could  swear  he  was 
fallin'  in  love  all  over  again.  And  I'm  picking  up  my 
looks,  I  must  say.  Ay,  there's  nothin'  like  a  soft  tongue 
for  keepin'  a  woman  young.  I  feel  'most  like  a  lassie, 
though  he  did  say  some  words  at  first  that  made  my  heart 
sore,  not  knowing  me  after  ten  years  away.  And  he's 
that  handsome  yet, — since  he's  shaved  off  the  beard  that 
got  so  between  us  I  didn't  know  my  own  good  man  that 
married  me  in  Dummerlie  kirk  on  as  sweet  a  Sunday 
morn  as  you  ever  see,  and  the  priest  in  a  new  frock  from 
Wappington,  as  the  housekeeper  told  me  herself —  La,  I 
forgot  my  lady! 

[Runs  out.     Stephen  steps  from  behind  a  shrub] 

Ste.  So,  mistress,  you've  known  me  all  the  time,  have 
you?     And  me  playin'  the  fool  courtin'  my  own  wife  that 
was  ready  to  jump  into  my  arms  at  the  drop  o'  a  hat! 
But  I'll  play  you  a  game,  my  lady! 
[Re-enter  Eldra] 

Eld.  O,  Mr.  Stephen! 

73 


74  LORDS    AND    LOVERS 

Ste.  Ho,  Madam  Prune-face!  A  sweet  mornin',  now 
ain't  it,  but  a  bit  briskish  as  suits  the  season. 

Eld.  Prune-face !  By  my  lady's  glass,  I've  not  a  wrinkle 
yet  as  big  as  the  hair  on  a  bat's  wing!  Plague  take  the 
eyes  o'  him  that  says  ft  as  shouldn't! 

Ste.  Well,  well,  I  meant  no  harm,  but  mickle  it  takes  to 
pinch  a  bruise.  I  brought  a  message  to  your  lady  from 
Sir  Roland 

Eld.  Sir  Roland?    He's  a  lord  now 

Ste.  Ay,  'tween  the  king  and  Hubert  they've  made  him 
a  lord. 

Eld.  Hubert!    You  mean  his  grace,  the  earl  of  Kent? 

Ste.  He's  still  my  friend,  Meggy.  The  earldom  is  noth 
ing  between  Hubert  and  old  friends.  And  I'm  a-climbing 
too.  I've  had  an  advancement,  which  I  don't  mind  telling 
you  about,  but  I'll  have  a  bit  o'  your  brew  first  and  a 
dozen  or  so  o'  them  cakes,  seein'  you  took  the  trouble.  I 
could  never  disappoint  a  woman  as  had  put  herself  out 
for  me.  [Sits  at  table] 

Eld.  [Pouring  ale]  It  has  been  a  long  stretch  since  you 
were  this  way,  sir. 

Ste.  Eh?  Has  it?  Well,  I  don't  wonder  you  think  so 
in  this  sort  o'  a  place.  Not  much  goin'  or  comin'  round 
here!  But  time  don't  hang  wi'  Stephen.  There's  ridiri' 
and  fightin'  an'  the  lassies  to  comfort 

Eld.  I  thought  you  were  honest.  You've  bragged 
enough ! 

Ste.  As  honest  as  a  soldier,  my  dear, — and  that  ought 
to  content  any  woman.  [Eldra  sits  at  table]  Yes,  sit  if 
you  like.  I'm  not  overproud,  though  your  place  is  behind 
a  man  o'  my  rank  when  he's  at  table.  I  know  I've  eaten 
wi'  you  and  drunk  wi'  you,  but  I've  had  an  advancement, 
Meggy,  I've  had  an  advancement.  [Takes  sip  of  ale 
and  puts  it  down]  Costmary!  Well,  let  'em  as  likes  it 
drink  it. 


LORDS    AND    LOVERS  75 

Eld.  'Tis  nice  and  balsamy.  I  thought  you'd  like  it, 
and  saved  it  o'  purpose. 

Ste.  Dose  me  wi'  tansy  and  be  done! 

[Eldra  turns  her  head  to  wipe  away  a  tear  and  Stephen 
gulps  the  ale] 

Ste.  [Bites  a  cake  and  puts  it  down]  Poh! 

Eld.  Don't  you  like  it? 

Ste.  If  I  don't  mind  a  lie  for  manners'  sake,  I  do,  but  if 
I've  more  respect  for  truth  than  manners,  I  don't.  Ain't 
your  hand  a  little  out? 

Eld.  I  thought  they  were  extra  nice,  sir.  I'm  sure  they 
rose  like  feathers. 

Ste.  And  may  blow  away  for  me!  But  come,  don't 
hang  your  head,  Meggy.  You're  too  old  for  that. 

Eld.  My  name  is  Eldra,  sir. 

Ste.  I  know,  I  know,  but  I  told  you  that  was  the  name 
o'  my  dear  lass  that's  dead  and  gone 

Eld.  Dead  and  gone? 

Ste.  That's  what  I  said.  If  she  ain't  dead,  she's  where 
I  can't  get  her,  which  is  all  the  same  to  a  soldier,  so  I've 
about  made  up  my  mind  to  give  over  lookin'  for  her. 
Lord,  don't  cry,  little  chicken!  You  are  a  soft  one. 
Cryin'  to  think  I've  lost  such  a  jewel  o'  a  lass,  but  I'll  tell 
you  something  to  make  you  think  better  of  it.  There 
is  somebody  up  in  old  Scotland  that  I  think  I'll  fetch 
down  for  the  comfort  o'  Stephen — as  bonny  a  woman 
as  a  man  need  want,  wi'  enough  siller  laid  up  from 
her  old  daddy  to  make  a  soldier  a  gentleman.  Lizzie  o' 
Logan 

Eld.  Oh-h! 

Ste.  The  qualms  again?  Now  devil  take  a  woman  as 
gets  queasy  just  when  a  man  wants  to  be  friendly  and  talk 
things  over. 

Eld.  [Aside]  Liz  o'  Logan!  My  cousin  as  was  always 
jealous  and  wanted  my  Stephen ! 


76  LORDS    AND    LOVERS 

Ste.  Hey,  Meggy!  [She  runs  out,  left]  Ha,  ha,  ha! 
Poor  little  woman!  I'm  a  villain.  I'm  twenty  villains. 
[Eldra  steals  back  unseen  and  hears  him]  To  treat  my 
bonny  sweet  wife  so!  The  cunningest  darling  that  ever 
said  yes  to  a  soldier!  I'll  make  it  all  right  when  she 
comes  back,  and  won't  there  be  a  smackin'  o'  lips!  [Eldra 
makes  signs  of  joy  and  revenge  and  disappears]  Where 
has  she  gone?  Run  off  to  cry  her  sweet  eyes  out,  I'll 
warrant!  I'll  go  find  her. 

[Exit,  left.     Eldra  and  Orson  come  on,  rear] 

Ors.  O,  is  it  true?  My  faithful  heart  is  blest  at  last? 
My  rival  indeed  vanquished?  And  I — I  am  your  adored 
one? 

Eld.  Yes,  but  don't  be  a  bigger  fool  than  you  can  help. 

Ors.  Fool,  ma'am? 

Eld.  There,  there,  I  mean  don't  forget  that  you  are  a 
man  of  dignity 

Ors.  Ah!     Don't  trouble  yourself. 

Eld.  And  cosset  me  before  folks,  like  a  bumpkin  with 
his  first  lass. 

Ors.  I'll  be  patient — before  company.  Though  I 
should  just  like  to  show  that  man  of  blood  what  my  rights 
are  now.  But  you  mean  it,  Eldra?  This  is  not  another 
jade's  trick? 

Eld.  'Tis  true — always  barring  that  my  man  don't  come 
back  to  claim  me. 

Ors.  The  fishes  keep  him! 

[Re-enter  Stephen]    Ah! 

Eld.  [Whispers  sweetly  to  Orson,  then  discovers  Stephen] 
O,  here  he  is!  Now,  Orson,  I  know  you'll  be  friends  wi' 
Mr.  Stephen.  Just  to  please  me  now.  You  see,  sir, 
Orson's  been  courtin'  me  many  a  year,  and  I  had  just 
about  give  in  like  a  weak  woman,  when  you  came  and  got 
me  all  upset  somehow,  lookin'  so  much  like  my  man  who 
was  drowned  at  sea,  an'  his  own  name  too.  I  did  lose 


OF  THE 

[   UNIVERSITY 
LORDS    AND    LOVERS  77 

^^^*»*, 

my  head  so  at  times  I  could  'a'  sworn  you  were  my  very 
man,  but  what  you  said  about  Liz  o'  Logan  brought  me 
to  my  right  mind  again,  and  Orson  is  willing  to  make  up, 
and  I'm  sure  we  can  all  be  friends,  only  me  and  Orson 
won't  be  presumin',  an'  shame  take  me  to  think  I  ever 
looked  so  high  as  a  king's  man  wi'  an  advancement — 
though  Orson  is  a  man  of  dignity  now — and — sit  down, 
Orson!  [Sits  at  table  and  pours  ale  for  Jiersclf  and  Orson] 
We  take  a  snip  together  about  this  time  every  mornin'. 
Orson's  got  no  quarrel  with  the  ale  cost,  and  he  does  love 
my  raisin'  o'  bread  and  cake. 

Ors.  And  who  doesn't  let  him  starve  in  a  ditch!  We 
don't  ask  you  to  sit,  Mister  Stephen.  We  know  our 
place,  and  hope  you  know  yours. 

Eld.  Ay,  a  king's  man  must  keep  his  head  high. 

Ors.  High,  my  love? 

Eld.  I  mean  with  an  advancement. 

Ors.  'Tis  well.     You  know  me,  Eldra. 

Eld.  I  hope  I  do,  Orson. 

Ors.  And  you  must  own,  my  dear,  that  you  came  to 
your  right  mind  in  very  good  time. 

Eld.  I'm  reasonably  thankful,  Orson.  I  know  what  it 
is  to  be  a  soldier's  wife. 

Ors.  They  lie  not  between  linen,  I  warrant  you. 

Eld.  Linen?  An  they  get  muslin  without  begging  it, 
they  may  thank  fortune! 

Ors.  With  never  a  silk  smock  for  the  fair. 

Eld.  Silk  smock?  An  a  new  one  comes  before  the  old 
one  drops  off  they  may  say  their  prayers  for  it ! 

Ors.  But  we'll  be  snug  enough,  my  dear. 

Eld.  That  we  will! 

Ors.  And  winter  coming  on.     Ah! 

Eld.  True  enough. 

Ors.  A  good  fire. 

Eld.  Yes,  my  love. 


78  LORDS    AND    LOVERS 

Ors.  A  little  mulled  sack,  if  the  night  be  wet. 

Eld.  Indeed,  my  dear !  And  a  hot  posset  for  your  cold, 
curdled  with  sweet  wine. 

Ors.  Humph!     A  little  tart,  I  beg  you,  to  give  it  spice. 

Eld.  Well,  our  tastes  won't  quarrel.  I  know  a  wife's 
place. 

Ors.  By  my  life,  you  do !  O,  'tis  a  merry  day !  Would 
I  were  not  a  man  of  dignity  now !  [Pats  her] 

Eld.  Orson! 

Ors.  I  mean — O,  come !  'Tis  a  merry  day !  Give  us  a 
song,  mister  soldier! 

Ste.  I'll  give  you  the  devil! 

Ors.  How,  sir?  You  seem  disturbed.  Perhaps  your 
reflections  are  not  so  happy  as  mine.  It  may  be  your 
mistress  has  not  such  an  adoring  and  adorable  eye — can 
not  feast  you  with  her  cheeks — [kisses  Eldra] — regale  you 
with  her  lips — [kisses  her] 

Ste.  Scoundrel!  Kiss  my  wife?  [Takes  him  by  collar 
and  throws  him  aside] 

Eld.  My  Stephen! 

Ste.  My  Eldra! 

Eld.  [Running  to  his  arms]  I  knew  it  was  you! 

Ste.  I  knew  it  was  you ! 

Eld.  Why  didn't  you  tell  me? 

Ste.  Why  didn't  you  tell  me? 

Ors.  As  a  man  of  dignity  now,  I  should  like  to  ask  why 
you  didn't  tell  me! 

Ste.  [Dancing  up  and  down  stage  with  Eldra]  Ay,  Orson, 
'tis  a  merry  day!     Come,  come!     Here's  a  good  ale  for  all. 
To  you,  Orson!    [Drinks]    And  let  the  song  go  'round! 
[All  sing] 

Ho,  Autumn  time,  O,  Autumn  time, 

When  every  wind  is  jolly, 
And  pip  and  pear  drop  in  their  prime 
For  tooth  of  fun  and  folly! 


LORDS    AND    LOVERS  79 

When  Hobnail's  store  is  ripe  for  raids, 

And  grapes  go  to  the  pressing, 
And  apple  cheeks  are  like  a  maid's 

When  Jack  would  'be  a-kissing! 

Ho,  hips  and  haws  for  vagabonds, 

With  russets  for  who'll  dare, 
And  hazels  by  the  meadow  ponds, 

Brown-sweet  for  barefoot 's  fare! 

The  pettychaps  beflit  the  larch, 
The  rocks  from  barn -top  scold, 

And  summer  rogues  are  on  the  march 
For  quarters  'gainst  the  cold. 

Ho,  Autumn  time,  O,  Autumn  time! 

When  every  wind  is  jolly, 
And  pip  and  pear  drop  in  their  prime 

For  tooth  of  fun  and  folly! 

Eld.  Hist!    My  lady  is  coming  with  her  knight. 

Ste.  What  knight?  Nobody  should  be  coming  here 
but  the  earl  of  Kent  and  my  lord  of  Wynne.  Come,  lass, 
what  knight? 

Eld.  O,  now  it's  out,  you  must  be  as  mum  as  a  dumb 
man's  grave.  My  lady  has  a  lover,  and  a  sweet  young 
knight  he  is,  too,  who  rides  out  every  week  just  for  a  peep 
at  her.  List!  You  can  hear  them  now,  just  over  the 
hedge. 

Ste.  And  the  master  doesn't  know!  By  Heaven,  the 
man's  a  villain,  and  I'm  a  traitor  to  my  lord  of  Kent  if  I 
don't  wring  his  neck! 

Eld.  Stephen!    Stephen! 

Ors.  Hold,  sir! 


80  LORDS    AND    LOVERS 

Ste.  Off  with  you!  I'd  drag  him  out  an  'twere  the  king 
himself!  [Leaps  through  the  hedge  and  pulls  the  king 
through]  God's  mercy!  I  am  dead!  It  is  the  king! 

[All  kneel  to  the  king.     Glaia  comes  through  the  hedge] 

Gla.  The  king? 

Hen.  'Tis  true.     I  am  that  wretched  man, 
Your  sovereign.     [Kneels] 

Ste.  [Aside]  Kneel  to  a  woman !   Nay, 
Not  Stephen!     [Rises] 

Hen.  Speak,  sweet,  and  say  that  I'm  forgiven! 

Gla.  My  Henry  I'll  forgive,  but  not  the  king. 

Hen.  No  pity  for  the  king?     O,  take  him,  too, 
Fair  Glaia,  crown  and  all !     [Rises]     Look  not  away, 
Nor  down,  nor  up,  nor  anywhere  but  here. 
Say  thou'lt  forgive,  we'll  instantly  to  court, 
For  there's  a  spirit  sits  within  this  hour, 
Like  silent  wisdom  in  a  lovely  face, 
That  gives  me  confidence.     We'll  to  the  court! 
I  know  thou  art  a  maid  of  noble  blood, 
For  thou  'rt  indexed  with  rank's  unerring  sign, 
And  dearly  limned  by  Nature  for  a  queen. 
Weep  not,  my  sweet,  thy  lover  is  a  king, 
And  by  my  soul,  and  these  dear  wildered  eyes, 
And  by  the  life  in  these  blue  wandering  veins, 

[kissing  her  hand] 
These  azure  rivers  in  a  lily  field — 
I'll  lift  thee  high  as  is  the  English  throne ! 

[Exeunt  the  king  and  Glaia} 

Ste.  Now  there  '11  be  a  broil  at  court  to  please  all  the 
witches  on  the  island. 

Eld.  And  'twas  you  dropped  the  devil's  meat  into  the 
pot.  O,  woe,  woe,  woe!  That  I  should  live  to  see  my 
lady  wed  the  king! 

Ste.  Well,  worse  could  'a'  happened.  The  king  might 
have  had  me  hung,  and  it's  bad  luck  to  be  a  widow  twice 


LORDS    AND    LOVERS  81 

to  the  same  man.  I'm  for  the  court  to  keep  both  eyes 
open  for  what  sport  befalls. 

Eld.  Sport?  O,  the  poor  lord  of  Wynne!  What  will 
he  do  now?  May  be  'tis  sent  on  him  for  worshippin'  my 
lady  like  the  Holy  Virgin.  Sport?  O,  that  you  should 
be  my  husband  and  a  villain!  Up  with  you,  Orson! 
There's  work  for  such  poor  servants  as  we  be. 

Ors.  Servant,  ma'am?  Dost  not  think  that  this  high 
connection  of  my  lady's  will  make  me  lord  chamberlain 

Eld.  Ay,  thoult  get  thy  right  place,  I  hope,  though  it 

be  lord  footman  to  a  donkey!     Come  along  with  you  both ! 

[Exeunt.     Re-enter  the  king  and  Glaia] 

Gla.  I  can't  believe  it  yet,  your  majesty. 

Hen.  Nay,  Henry,  love.  The  name  you  gave  me  first. 
By  that  alone  I'll  live  upon  your  lips. 

Gla.  I  should  be  gay, — alack,  I  am  half  sad. 
A  sort  of  music  here  is  gone.     Mayhap 
I  loved  my  brother  better  than  the  king. 

Hen.  Thy  brother?     Call  me  that  no  more.     My  bride! 
The  sleeping  angel  I  would  kiss  awake, 
For  waking  thou  art  human  and  can  love. 
Ah,  Glaia,  none  doth  know^  how  I  have  dreamed, 
For  kings  must  give  up  all  just  to  be  kings — 
How  oft  at  night  I've  left  the  palace  world 
To  find  me  lodging  in  the  sweeter  air 
Where  spirits  hold  their  gentle  pageantries, 
And  meet  the  winds  that  blow  from  destiny 
Pregnant  with  fortune  for  my  famished  soul, — 
While  they  who  stood  about  the  royal  bed, 
Whose  stealthful  eyes  held  me  in  silken  jail, 
Knew  not  my  body  lay  untenanted 
And  they  but  guarded  clay.     And  everywhere 
'Twas  thee  I  sought,  my  Glaia.     When  you  came, 
I  looked,  and  knew  that  I  need  dream  no  more. 


82  LORDS    AND    LOVERS 

Gla.  And  thou  art  no  more  sad?    I  make  thee  happy? 

Hen.  When  I  am  with  thee  'tis  continual  Spring, 
For  in  my  heart  is  such  sweet  jugglery 
Each  winter-ragged  month  doth  put  on  May. 

Gla.  It  makes  me  fear  to  be  so  much  to  thee. 
O,  Henry,  leave  me, — leave  me  here  a  child 
That  never  shall  be  woman, — ne'er  shall  seek 
The  bitter  knowledge  of  the  human  world. 

[A  fawn  comes  to  her  from  the  wood.    She  fondles  it] 
See,  brother!     I  would  ope  no  book  less  pure 
Than  these  large  eyes.     Ah,  me,  was  ever  soul 
So  full  of  earth  as  mine?     I  can  love  nothing 
But  woods  and  streams,  and  these  unspeaking  things 
That  reasonless  may  build  no  dream  of  God. 
My  Henry,  why  this  fear  that  if  I  go 
From  this  dear  world  I'll  come  to  it  no  more? 

Hen.  Cast  off  the  doubt — and  here  I  trample  it. 
We  shall  come  often  to  this  home  of  peace. 
But,  Glaia,  let  us  go.     The  hours  run  fast, 
And  eve  must  find  me  at  the  court. 

Gla.  The  court? 

There  does  my  rival  in  my  lover  speak. 
There  speaks  my  enemy,  for  in  the  court 
I  shall  find  that  will  make  these  fears  all  plain. 

Hen.  Fear  nothing  now!    I  see  thou  knowest  how 
To  please  me  best,  making  me  woo  thee  o'er 
And  o'er  again,  for  naught  could  be  more  sweet! 
[Exeunt.     Curtain] 

SCENE  2.  Room  in  Westminster  palace.     The  earl  of  Kent 
and  countess  of  Albemarle  talking. 

Kent.  Why  do  you  doubt?     You've  ever  trusted  me. 

La.  Alb.  Ay,  while  you  were  all  man. 

Kent.  So  am  I  now. 


LORDS    AND    LOVERS  83 

La.  Alb.  Nay,  you  are  one  half  woman,  being  married. 
A  wife's  the  key  may  ope  her  husband's  heart 
To  all  the  world.     She  is  the  pick  and  pry 
To  every  lock  of  trust,  and  weasels  through 
His  secrets  spite  all  seals.     Swear,  Hubert,  swear 
That  Margaret  shall  not  know ! 

Kent.  Have  I  not  sworn? 

How  many  times  will  you  demand  my  oath? 

La.  Alb.  A    thousand    thousand   will    not    bring    me 
peace ! 

Kent.  Ah,  Eleanor,  why  desolate  your  days 
With  this  wild  fear?     'Tis  Heaven  you've  sinned  against, 
Not  man.     Look  thou  above  for  condemnation. 
The  wrorld  is  harsh  to  virtue,  not  to  sin. 
See  how  the  daughter  of  the  earl  of  Valence, 
John's  one-time  mistress,  proudly  holds  her  head, 
Nor  lacks  for  fawning  followers?     And  mark 
How  Rosamond's  two  sons  have  fixed  their  line 
Fast  'mong  our  English  peers.     If  you  would  dare 
To  bring  sweet  Glaia  forth,  I  do  not  doubt 
The  court  would  welcome  her  as  princess  born. 

La.  Alb.   But  Albemarle!     He  never  would  forgive! 
Christine  of  Valence  was  not  wife  to  him, 
Else  would  her  mimic  court  be  dungeon  close, 
And  racks,  not  lovers,  kiss  her  dainty  fingers. 
You've  never  seen  his  rage!     O,  swear  again 
You'll  set  securest  watch  on  act  and  tongue, 
Nor  let 

Kent.  Here  is  your  lord  with  Winchester. 

La.  Alb.  O! 

Kent.  Come,  I'll  satisfy  you,  Eleanor. 

[Exeunt,  right.     Winchester  and  Albemarle  enter  rear] 

Win.  The  name  of  Kent  erases  church  and  state 
And  king.     Fortune  grows  doting,  and  would  make 
A  darling  of  this  man. 


84  LORDS    AND    LOVERS 

Alb.  She'll  change  her  love, 

Doubt  not. 

Win.       "Tis  time.     New  favors  upon  him  light 
As  birds  on  fruity  branches.     Castles  and  estates 
Are  but  as  feathers  every  wind  brings  in. 
Dost  not  begin  to  fear  him? 

Alb.  You  are  pleasant. 

I  fear?     When  I  could  lend  him  half  my  power, 
And  yet  o'erbear  him?     In  the  north  there  are 
One  thousand  leaders  holding  swords  of  me! 

Win.  I'm  answered  then? 

Alb.  Ay,  sir.     Though  not  from  love 

To  Kent,  nor  hate  to  you,  do  I  deny  you. 
But  I'll  not  stand  the  champion  of  a  wanton, 
Though  royal  daughter  of  a  royal  sire. 
The  knightly  Albemarles  have  never  stooped 
To  lift  adultery  from  its  miry  bed 
And  set  its  colors  on  their  virtuous  helm. 

Win.  Now,  by  your  leave,  the  half  of  England  comes 
Into  the  world  by  left  hand  of  the  priest, 
Yet  fight  and  pray  as  well  as  you  or  I, 
Nor  bates  a  jot  their  honor  in  men's  eyes, 

Alb.  You  have  my  answer.     When  I'm  ready  for't, 
I'll  tumble  Kent  to  earth  in  my  own  fashion, 
And  not  by  means  that  sets  French  Adelais 
On  virtue's  pinnacle,  a  star  of  gilt 
To  falsely  glitter  in  the  eye  of  dames 
And  set  them  wandering  with  their  vanities 
Till  they  forget  the  way  to  their  true  lords. 

Win.  [Musing]  I'm  writing  a  court  history,  your  grace. 
'Twas  John,  I  think,  who  set  your  countess'  father 
On  fortune's  road. 

Alb.  Nay,  'twas  the  king  before  him, 

Henry  the  Second. 

Win.     [Going]     Well,  my  wary  lord, 


LORDS    AND    LOVERS  85 

I  have  no  bruise  to  nurse,  and  meet  the  blow 
Befalls  from  any  point. 

Alb.  What  do  you  say? 

Win.  I  say,  my  lord,  I'll  strike  as  pleases  me, 
And  you  keep  cover  as  you  will.     [Exit] 

Alb.  A  bruise? 

Keep  cover?     Gods!     And  I  stood  still!     The  dog! 
I'll  after  him  and  take  him  by  the  throat! 

[Re-enter  lady  Albemarle,  right] 

La.  Alb.  What  said  our  ancient  enemy? 

Alb.  Enough! 

He  angered  me! 

La.  Alb.  But  what  the  cause,  my  lord? 

Alb.  He'll  quash  the  claim  the  church  makes  to  my 

castles 

If  I  will  aid  in  bringing  Kent  to  trial 
On  charge  of  Adelais,  who  sojourns  here 
To  push  her  old  appeal.     I  will  not  do  't! 

La.  Alb.  Thanks  that  you  shield  my  brother,  by  whose 

rise 
You  droop. 

Alb.         I  shield  your  brother?     Wrhen  his  name 
Is  Kent?     Nay,  you  mistake  me.     I  refused 
Because  this  princess  was  no  more  nor  less 
Than  Henry  Second's  mistress,  and  the  son, 
Whose  death  is  laid  to  Kent,  was  the  vile  fruit 
Of  wantonness.     A  princess!     I'd  forgive 
A  milkmaid  false,  but  error  in  the  great 
Is  so  bestarred  by  its  exalted  place 
That  those  beneath  mistake  what  is  so  lustered 
For  the  true  sun. 

La.  Alb.  Hast  seen  the  king,  my  lord? 

Alb.  I  say  'tis  guilt  of  such  a  heinous  sort, 
So  foully  odorous  and  so  far  bestrewn, 
The  sea  o'errunning  Britain  could  not  wash 
The  island  free  of  it ! 


86  LORDS    AND    LOVERS 

La.  Alb.  'Tis  very  wrong. 

Alb.  What!     Set  this  princess  over  all  your  heads 
As  she  were  halo-browed,  that  you  might  pray 
Her  saintly  patronage  for  your  loose  hopes? 

La.  Alb.  Indeed,  it  is  not  well. 

Alb.  Well?    By  my  life, 

Our  English  dames  are  running  mad  enough, 
And  must  be  duchesses  because — look  ye — 
They're  wantons  to  a  king !     Out  on  your  kind ! 
[Aside,  slowly}    "  'Twas    John,    I    think,    who    set   your 

countess'  father 

On  fortune's  road."     You've  been  a  handsome  woman — 
Could  foot  right  well  on  Venus'  heels.     My  soul, 
There's  beauty  in  you  yet  to  draw  an  eye 
O'er  the  picket  of  defence! 

La.  Alb.  My  lord,  I  pray  you 

Alb.  'Tis  well  that  our  young  Richard  has  my  eye, 
And  trick  of  walk,  and  way  of  sudden  speech, 
Else  I'd  suspect  a  cuckoo  in  the  nest, 
For  all  your  dainty  strictures  and  high  head! 

La.  Alb.  For  Christ's  sake,  Albemarle 

Alb.  Ay,  had  he  not 

My  very  shoulder  hitch  and  swelling  neck 
This  night  I'd  drag  him  to  the  eastern  tower 
And  hurl  him  to  the  Thames ! 

La.  Alb.  My  God! 

Alb.  For  you 

I'd  pay  out  my  estate  in  hire  of  men 
To  spend  their  lives  devising  drawn-out  pains 
That  death  might  feed  and  grow  upon  itself! 

La.  Alb.     Ah,  sir,  no  need.     I'm  dead  now  with  your 
words. 

Alb.  The  king  is  entering.     Look  up,  my  dame. 
I  rage  to  think  you  could  be  false,  and  not 
Because  you  are.     Come,  where 's  your  blood,  my  lady? 


LORDS    AND    LOVERS  87 

Those  frosted  cheeks  are  not  the  royal  color. 

Smile  and  I'll  pardon  you.     I  know  you  true. 

[Aside]  But  when  we're  home  again  we'll  talk  somewhat 

Of  those  same  favors  granted  to  your  father. 

[Enter  Pembroke,  Winchester,  and  others.     Pembroke  and 
Winchester  talk  apart] 

Pern.  But  where  is  Gualo?     He  is  friend  to  Kent. 

Win.  Shipped  back  to  Rome. 

Pern.  Well  done! 

Win.  That  is  made  sure. 

And  now  111  push  the  claim  of  Adelais 
With  all  the  power  pillared  by  the  church. 

Pern.  Henry  will  never  yield.     He  wraps  the  earl 
So  close  in  love  'twill  shake  the  throne  to  part  them. 
There's  no  path  to  the  king  not  barriered 
By  Kent's  unceasing  watch. 

Win.  I'll  drop  a  canker 

Will  eat  a  way  for  us.     Ah,  here  they  come. 

Pern.  Arm-locked  as  king  and  king;   and  eye  to  eye, 
Like  lovers  changing  souls. 

[Enter  Henry,  Kent,   Lord  Wynne.     Lords  and  ladies, 
among  whom  is  Margaret,  enter  behind  them] 

Hen.         [To  Kent]     I  fear  to  tell  you,  Hubert,  even  you. 

Kent.  I  do  not  fear  to  hear  it,  whate'er  you  do 
So  well  becomes  a  throne. 

Hen.  You  promise  then 

Your  fullest  pardon? 

Kent.  Your  open  deeds,  my  lord, 

Bear  such  a  noble  front  I  should  not  fear 
To  clap  a  lusty  "ay"  to  all  you've  done 
In  secret. 

Hen.  Thank  you,  Kent.     And  Roland,  too, — 
Our  good  lord  Wynne — must  echo  you  with  pardon, 
For  I  have  touched  him  when  he  felt  me  not, 
And  shortly  he  must  look  upon  his  wound. 


88  LORDS    AND    LOVERS 

Wynne.  I  do  not  fear  to  see  it.     You've  taught  me,  sir, 
The  wounds  you  give  me  carry  their  own  heal. 

Hen.  But  this  is  deep. 

Wynne.  The  richer  then  the  balm. 

Hen.  Then  out,  poor  Henry,  with  thy  heart's  misdeed. 

[Turns  to  the  court] 

Listen,  my  lords, — my  gracious  court, — to  you 
I  make  appeal.     Is  any  here  who  holds 
Me  in  such  wintry  and  removed  regard 
He  would  not  grant  my  heart  its  choice  in  love? 
[Surprise  and  silence] 

Win.  Your  wisdom,  sire,  that  sets  the  cap  of  age 
Upon  the  curls  of  youth,  gives  us  excuse 
To  bid  you  choose  at  will  your  royal  mate. 
If  I  speak  not  for  all,  we'll  hear  dissent. 

[Silence] 
This  silence  warrants  you  to  woo  and  speed. 

Hen.   That  I  have  done,  and  now  can  show  to  you 
This  jewel  of  my  choice  that  late  I  found 
Deep  hidden  from  the  world.     So  fixed  my  love, 
I  can  not  wait  to  wander  through  the  ways 
A  king  comes  to  betrothal,  and  shall  win 
Your  quick  assent,  even  now,  by  bringing  her 
To  your  commending  eyes. 

[Exit  Henry] 

A  lord.  What  does  he  mean? 

Is  this  some  princely  revel? 

Another  lord.  It  may  be, 

And  our  part  is  to  smile. 

Win.  [To  Pembroke]      Mark  you  earl  Kent? 
He  changes  face. 

Pern.  And  his  pale  friend,  lord  Wynne, 

Turns  corpse  on  's  feet. 

Win.  Ha !     Is  it  possible 

They  were  not  privy  to  this  kingly  move? 


LORDS    AND    LOVERS  89 

[Re-enter  Henry,  leading  Glaia] 

Hen.  Here,  dear  my  lords!     Look  on  my  choice  and 

say 

That  here  might  come  Rome's  vestals  to  repair 
Their  tapers  dim.     Is  she  not  royal,  friends? 
See  how  her  eyes  look  bravely  into  yours, 
Though  on  her  cheek  a  sweet  timidity 
Doth  couch  in  coral.     Now  commend  me,  all ! 
And  Hubert,  earl  of  Kent,  say  whence  is  she, 
And  what  her  parentage?     For  all  I  know 
Is  that  I  found  her  bowered  in  Greenot  woods. 

Kent.  My  God! 

Hen.  O,  Hubert,  muffle  up  the  storm 
Rides  on  your  brow,  and  smile  upon  my  love ! 

Kent.  Believe  me,  sire,  she  can  not  be  your  wife. 

Hen.  Not  be  my  wife?    Unsay  the  words,  dear  Hubert. 
You  mean,  perhaps,  she's  humbler  born  than  I — 
The  daughter  of  a  duke — an  earl — a  lord — 
Ay,  say  a  knight  that  bravely  bore  his  shield, 
And  all  the  gap  'twixt  her  degree  and  mine 
Her  native  graces  will  bridge  o'er  and  make 
Her  way  unto  my  throne. 

Kent.  [Kneeling]  O,  king  beloved, 

You  must  believe  me!     She  can  not  be  yours! 

Hen.  Then,  Heaven,  turn   foul,   thou   dost  not   shine 

for  me! 

Rise,  Hubert,  rise,  for  I  must  love  you  still, 
Though  you  have  robbed  me  of  the  sun  and  stars. 

Kent.  [Rises]  My  noblest  sovereign! 

Hen.  Now  let  me  hear 

Why  this  ne'er  mated  dove  can  not  be  mine, 
And  I'll  attend  thee  patient  as  the  dead 
Do  list  their  requiem. 

Kent.  Sire,  I  am  pledged. 

Such  sacred  oaths  are  warders  at  my  lips 


90  LORDS    AND    LOVERS 

That  angels  would  turn  pale  in  Heaven  to  hear 
Their  violation. 

Hen.  Oaths?    We  must  not  hear? 

Kent.  Not  from  my  lips.     It  may  be  from  another's 
In  better  time. 

Hen.  In  better  time?    By  Heaven, 

You  shall  uncover  here  her  history, 
And  I  myself  shall  say  if  she  may  be 
My  own  or  no ! 

Kent.  Thy  mercy  on  a  man 

In  one  hour  old ! 

Hen.  You  are  the  torturer! 

O,  Hubert,  Hubert,  I  am  on  my  knees ! 

Kent.  Sire,  give  me  leave  to  go,  and  take  this  maid, 
So  long  my  care  that  I  must  keep  her  still. 
Come,  Glaia — child — 'tis  Hubert  takes  thy  hand. 
My  sovereign  lord,  I  go  with  sorrow  hence. 
I  would  my  tongue  were  torn  from  its  curst  root 
Than  speak  you  woe, — but  do  not  hope,  my  liege, 
Your  husband  hand  can  ever  touch  this  maid. 
The  thought  to  ague  shakes  my  soul ! 

[Exit  Kent  with  Glaia.  Margaret  would  follow,  but  is 
detained  by  lady  Albemarle,  who  is  half  swooning. 
Winchester  kneels  and  kisses  the  king's  robe] 

Win.  My  king, 

Thou'rt  still  beloved. 

Hen.  Ah,  what  canst  say  to  one 

So  pinioned  by  distress  that  he  must  lose 
His  dearest  friend  or  dearest  love? 

Win.  My  lord,  if  friendship  may  have  leave  to  speak 
As  fits  its  holy  bond  and  name 

Hen.  O,  speak! 

Say  anything! 

Win.  Too  long  you  have  been  wronged. 

Did  not  Kent  win  by  stealth  the  Scottish  princess, 


LORDS    AND    LOVERS  91 

Your  promised  bride?     Consorting  his  base  blood 
With  royalty? — which  was  his  secret  aim, 
And  all  his  burning  love  for  Margaret 
But  feigned  and  politic  to  gain  your  pity. 
Again  he's  at  your  heart!     And  hopes  once  more 
To  bear  himself  to  high  success.     If  not, 
With  face  assumed  and  sorrowing  he'll  melt 
You  to  forgiveness. 

Mar.  Listen  not,  my  liege! 

Hen.  [To  Winchester]  Is  this  your  comfort? 

Mar.  Sire,  he  slanders  love 

As  true  as  God's  to  men,  who  says  my  lord 
Is  false! 

Win.  Her  pride  would  say  as  much,  my  liege. 
As  for  this  maid, — whom  majesty  might  choose, 
And  all  the  kingdom  feel  itself  adorned, — 
She's  either  heir  to  vast  and  rich  estates, 
Or  Kent  dotes  on  her  with  such  jealous  love 
He  will  not  yield  her  even  to  his  king. 
And  both  these  reasons,  sire,  I  urge  as  one 
T'  explain  his  stout  refusal  to  make  known 
What  honesty  would  haste  to  shout  aloud. 

Wynne.  Who  says  that  Kent,  in  friendship  or  in  love, 
E'er  sought  his  gain,  doth  foully  lie! 

Win.  This  man 

Is  Kent's  own  creature. 

Hen.  Ah,  that's  not  his  sin. 

He  loves  my  Glaia,  and  would  make  her  his. 

Wynne.  Yes,  sire,  I  love  her,*— you  are  right  so  far, — 
But,  sovereign  lord,  I  would  expect  as  soon 
To  pottle  with  an  angel  at  an  inn 
As  make  her  mine.     Though  Hubert  spurred  my  suit 

Hen.  He  favored  you! 

Wynne.  He  set  no  bars  between  us. 

Hen.  Ah,  you  could  wed  her — let  the  king  go  beg ! 


92  LORDS    AND    LOVERS 

Alb.  Away,  you  perked-up  villain !     Out  of  this ! 

Wynne.  When  you  come  with  me,  sir,  that  I  may  slit 
The  tongue  tljat  fouls  my  name ! 

Alb.  My  hot-mouthed  sir, 

I'll  leave  his  majesty  to  teach  you  better   manners. 

Hen.  And  here  I  do,  with  a  ne'er-ending  lesson. 
Roland  de  Born,  so  lately  lord  of  Wynne, 
Thou  'rt  banished  from  our  realms,  not  to  return, 
Though  thou  shouldst  live  to  see  more  years  than  yet 
Man  ever  numbered  his. 

Wynne.  Is  this  your  will? 

Hen.  In  truth,  'tis  nothing  else! 

Wynne.  Then,  sire,  farewell. 

Some  men  are  fashioned  men  by  circumstance — 
Shaped  by  what  wind  blows  on  them.     In  their  veins 
The  heavens  croak  or  sing.     Does  the  sky  frown, 
They're  muddy  and  befouled, — it  smiles,  and  straight 
Fair  weather's  in  their  blood,  sporting  its  flag 
In  their  new  countenance.     Not  I,  my  lords! 
Nay,  on  the  winds  my  soul  shall  leave  its  shape, 
And  where  I  venture  I  am  what  I  am, 
A  knight  of  England,  loyal  to  his  king.     [Exit] 

Alb.  Death  to  his  arrogance! 

Pern.  This  judgment,  sire, 

Is  much  too  modest. 

Win.  Hear  us  now,  my  liege, 

For  you  have  heard  too  little  these  months  past. 

Hen.  My  lords,  I  am  too  faint  and  troubled  now 
To  understand  if  you  be  friends  or  foes, 
Or  if  the  earl  .of  Kent  be  false  to  me; 
But  come,  and  what  you  choose  to  speak,  I'll  hear. 
.  .  .  Glaia,  art  gone  from  me?     Ah,  who  would  live? 
The  winds  of  doom  are  sold  by  Lapland  witches, 
Who  mix  the  compass  points  and  blow  us  foul 
When  we  have  paid  our  fortune  to  go  fair. 


LORDS    AND    LOVERS  93 

[Exeunt  Henry  and  lords.     Lady  Albemarle   and  Mar 
garet  arc  left  alone] 

Mar.  Why  do  you  keep  me  so? 

La.  Alb.  Where  would  you  go? 

Mar.  Where  else  but  to  my  lord? 

La.  Alb.  You  shall  not  go. 

O,  stay  with  me!     One  moment,  Margaret! 

Mar.  Another?     Nay,  you're  better.     I  must  go. 
O,  Eleanor,  didst  hear  that  Winchester? 
Foul  murderer  of  honor — Hubert's  honor! 
Can  these  be  tongues  of  men  ?  .  .  .  And  Roland  banished ! 

La.  Alb.   Canst  think  of  him? 

Mar.  He's  Hubert's  friend.     Who  now 
Will  stand  by  him? 

La.  Alb.  You,  Margaret,  and  I. 

Mar.  Yes — let  me  go! 

La.  Alb.  What  will  you  say  to  him? 

Mar.  Beg  him  not  let  his  bitter  thoughts  usurp 
Quite  all  his  heart,  but  leave  a  little  room 
That  e'er  so  small  will  make  me  ample  heaven. 

La.  Alb.  You  will  not  ask  of  Glaia? 

Mar.  Ask?     Dost  think 

That  I  must  ask? 

La.  Alb.  He  will  not  tell  thee! 

Mar.  Not? 

I  am  his  heart.     His  veins  run  not  with  health 
Except  as  I  know  howr  they  course,  and  beat 
Concordantly.     Doubt  not  he'll  tell  me  all. 

La.  Alb.  He  shall  not  tell  thee! 

Mar.  Madam,  you  are  strange. 

La.  Alb.  Ay,  Margaret,  and  strangest  to  myself. 
O,  he  is  true!     Dear  God,  I  know  he's  true! 

Mar.  Make  it  no  question  then.     For  by  the  sun, 
And  heaven's  starry  clock  that  now  goes  by, 
You  shall  not  say  he's  false  to  Margaret! 


94  LORDS    AND    LOVERS 

La.  Alb.  To  you?     Ha!  false  to  you?    Dost  think  my 

thoughts 
Must  ever  web  round  you? 

Mar.  [Going]  You  are  his  sister. 

La.  Alb.  What,  are  you  gone?     Forgive  me,  Margaret. 

Mar.  Ah,  you  forget  that  I  am  suffering  too. 

La.  Alb.  You  suffer?     You? 

Mar.  You  have  a  husband,  madam. 

La.  Alb.  I  have.     Let  me  remember  him.     Ha,  ha! 
You  suffer,  icicle?     What  do  you  know  of  pain 
But  as  the  lookers  on  about  a  pit 
See  one  at  bottom  dying?     As  curious  eyes 
Regard  the  writhing  heretic  at  stake? 
Or  say,  as  angels  flying  heavenward  turn 
To  give  one  grudged  tear  unto  the  damned? 
That  is  your  pain,  you  pure,  proud  Margaret! 
.  .  .  O,  madness,  seize  me! 

Mar.  By  my  fears  you  have 

No  need  to  pray  for  't. 

La.  Alb.  Conscience,  where  dost  sleep? 

Let  me  tread  by  nor  rouse  thee. 

Mar.  Eleanor? 

La.  Alb.  Whence  are  those  floods  of  fire?     O,  Hubert, 
save  me! 

Mar.  Dear  Eleanor,  be  calm.     I  did  not  think 
You  loved  your  brother  so. 

La.  Alb.  What's  that  you  say? 

Ah,  yes,  'tis  Margaret.     Go  to  him  now. 
Ask  of  this  maid — then  blazon  all — all — all ! 

Mar.  Come  with  me,  Eleanor. 

La.  Alb.  Drive  home  the  knife 

Now  threats  his  heart! 

Mar.  Come  with  me,  come ! 

La.  Alb.  'Tis  fit 

His  wife  should  do  it! 


LORDS    AND    LOVERS  95 

Mar.  Come,  dear  Eleanor. 

[Exeunt,   right.     Henry,   Winchester,  Albemarle,  Pem 
broke,  enter  rear] 

Win.  We're  glad  you  are  convinced,  my  lord. 

Hen.  Glad,  sir? 

Glad  that  one  half  my  heart  is  mottled,  foul, 
Diseased,  and  must  be  cut  away,  though  I 
Die  with  the  cleaving?     Ay,  I  am  convinced. 

Win.  And  give  consent  that  Kent  be  made  to  answer 
The  charge  of  Adelais? 

Hen.  Be  't  as  you  please. 

Pern.  'Twere  best  to  haste  in  this,  ere  all  the  shires 
Misled  in  love  by  Kent,  hear  of  his  danger. 

Win.  I  have  the  warrant  here.     It  lacks  your  seal, 
My  liege. 

H en.  [Quickly  sealing  it]  Now  it  does  not.     Here  splits 

my  heart, 
And  half  falls  with  thee,  Hubert. 

[Winchester  comforts  him.     Albemarle  and  Pembroke  talk 
apart] 

Pern.  In  fewest  words, 

What  purpose  you? 

Alb.  To  ride  at  once  to  north, 

And  through  my  agents  stir  up  a  rebellion 
Against  the  king,  whom  we  must  make  appear 
Kent's  sole  remover,  for  he  now  's  become 
The  idol  of  the  witless  multitude, 
With  whose  hot  sanction  we  may  move  'gainst  Henry 
And  roll  his  head  as  fast  as  Kent's  to  hell. 

Pern.  But  you  must  see  the  trial. 

Alb.  So  I  aim. 

But  if  I'm  blocked  therein,  I  look  to  you 
To  keep  me  stationed  in  my  feudal  rights, 
And  what  you  venture  for  me  I'll  make  good 
With  forty  thousand  men,  or  horse  or  foot. 


96  LORDS    AND    LOVERS 

Hen.  Where  is  lord  Wynne?     Inquire  if  he  has  gone? 

Alb.  He'll  trouble  you  no  more,  for  if  my  servants 
Be  to  me  loyal  they've  set  him  toward  the  sea. 

Hen.  You're  pert  in  my  own  matters.     I  bethought  me 
I  would  recall  his  sentence.     He  is  noble, 
And  I  have  done  him  wrong.     Why  press  about  me? 
Ye  are  devils  all !     Call  me  the  earl  of  Kent. 

Win.  He  is  not  here,  my  lord. 

Hen.  Give  me  the  warrant. 

Quick,  sir!     I'll  have  it  back!     I'll  take  more  time! 

Win.  "Tis  gone,  my  liege. 

Hen.  Gone?     Is  the  devil  your  post? 

Pern.  We  pray  your  pardon,  sire. 

Hen.  Could  you  not  give 

One  little  hour  to  old  friends  taking  leave, 
Though  one  is  a  poor  king?     Away  from  me! 

Win.  Dear  majesty,  beloved  above  all  kings, 
Let  not  your  frown  unpay  again  the  service 
Your  smile  even  now  rewarded.     'Tis  too  much, 
Howe'er  we  have  endured,  to  ask  our  silence 
While  Kent  doth  rob  thee  of  a  fairer  queen 
Than  ever  made  a  court  seem  gaudy  poor 
By  her  rich  self.     Must  we  stand  humbly  back, 
That  he  may  please  his  bosom  with  her  beauty, 
And  bury  in  his  lust  what  forth  should  shine 
Thine  and  a  happy  England's  constant  sun? 

Pern.  No  doubt,  my  liege,  we  shall  remove  each  bar 
That  shuts  you  from  your  love,  and  please  ourselves 
The  most  in  pleasing  you. 

Hen.  O,  make  her  mine, 

And  all  you  wish,  if  kings  have  power  o'er  fate, 
Will  come  to  pass.     I  trust  you — yet — and  yet — 
Who  can  be  true  when  Huberts  are  found  false? 

[Curtain] 


ACT  II 

SCENE  1.  A  room  in  the  earl  of  Kent's  palace.     An  inner 
room  rear,  cut  off  by  curtains.     Kent  alone. 

Kent.  Now,  Eleanor,  wilt  prove  thee  saint,  or  devil? 
Wilt  mend  this  breach,  or  must  I  perish  in  it? 
Too  well  I  know  that  soul's  dark  history 
To  think  it  may  breed  light.     The  moment  globes 
The  years'  full  character;  a  whole  life's  face 
Peeps  out  in  smallest  deeds.     Yet  wonders  are. 
And  Eleanor  may  prove  false  to  herself 
To  once  keep  faith  with  Heaven. 

[Listens]  Glaia?     Ay! 

[Goes  to  curtains  rear,  parts  them  softly,  looks  within  and 

returns] 

She  did  not  call.     111  watch  all  night.     Twill  be 
No  added  task  since  there's  no  sleep  for  me. 
My  Margaret  is  safe.     They  dare  not  touch 
A  princess  of  the  blood.     But  I  am  down. 
Tis  said  and  sung  there  is  no  greater  pain 
Than  wrenches  Fortune's  nurslings  when  she  flies. 
Not  so.     False  lady  of  the  wheel,  take  all ! 
But  O,  to  see  my  king  yield  to  the  wolves 
Now  fang-close  to  his  heart — there  is  my  death! 

[Sits  on  a  couch,  his  head  bmved.  Margaret  enters, 
advances  softly  and  embraces  him.  He  looks  up,  re 
turning  her  caress] 

Now  let  the  world  go  on,  111  rest  me  here. 
Why  should  I  keep  my  hand  proud  on  the  helm, 

97 


98  LORDS    AND    LOVERS 

War  with  the  unsated  surge,  nor  know  the  pause 
That  is  the  spirit's  silent  growing  time? 
Ah,  Margaret,  how  little  will  content  thee? 
No  more  nor  less  than  love  and  poorest  me? 

Mar.  No  more,  my  lord.     Nor  will  aught  less  make  full 
My  greedy  cup.     Thou  wert  the  king's,  but  now 
Thou  art  all  mine.     All  mine,  my  love?     Or  is 
That  little  "all"  my  greatest  flatterer? 

Kent.  You  know  my  heart.     Where  have  you  been  so 
long? 

Mar.  With  Eleanor.     I  brought  her  home  with  me. 

Kent.  She's  here? 

Mar.  Yes,  Hubert.     Ah,  she  loves  you  well. 

Kent.  She  loves  me? 

Mar.  Better  than  you  thought. 

Kent.  [In  sudden  hope]  Then  .  .  .  Speak! 
What  has  she  told  you? 

Mar.  Nothing.     What,  my  lord, 

Should  she  have  told  me? 

Kent.  [Dully]  Nothing. 

Mar.  I  have  heard 

So  much  of  this — this  nothing. 

Kent.  Margaret, 

Thou  hast  my  soul.     Wilt  keep  it  true  for  me? 

Mar.  I  keep  it?     No,  I  doubt  myself. 

Kent.  Thyself? 

Then  trust  my  trust  in  thee,  which  meets  thy  love 
As  swallows  meet  the  waking  winds  of  Spring 
And  know  where  life  is. 

Mar.  Doubt  or  trust,  I  love  thee ! 

O  Hubert,  let  us  go  this  night  to  lands 
That  know  how  to  be  kind  and  smile  on  lovers. 

Kent.  Dost  hope  by  flying  England  to  fly  pain, 
That  everywhere  encircles  man  as  fire 
To  shape  his  soul  in  fashion  of  his  God? 


LORDS    AND    LOVERS  99 

Mar,  For  love  and  life  I  beg !     Why  do  I  say 
For  love  and  life,  since  there's  no  life  for  me 
Without  thy  love?     O,  you  will  go  with  me! 
Leave  the  ungrateful  king  to  wed  at  will 

Kent.  Leave  Glaia  to  the  king?     The  thought  is  flame! 

Mar.  [Standing  before  him,  suddenly  tense] 
Who  is  this  maiden  that  you  guard  as  she 
Were  the  one  drop  of  blood  that  in  your  heart 
Makes  living  centre?     WTio? 

Kent.  [After  a  pause]          You  heard  my  answer. 

Mar.  Ay,  to  the  king,  but  not  to  me — thyself — 
Nay  more,  for  when  thou  takest  away  thyself, 
Though  in  the  smallest  part,  so  much  I  die, — 
And  by  this  secret  that  divorces  us 
Am  wholly  slain.     But  tell  it  to  me,  Hubert, 
And  'twill  become  another  blessed  bond, 
To  second  union  closer  than  the  first 
Re-sanctioning  our  souls. 

[He  is  silent.     Her  rage  overcomes  her] 

Unseal  thy  lips, 

Or  by  the  fires  that  flit  now  through  my  brain, 
By  the  ancestral  wrongs  within  my  blood 
That  start  suspicion  where  there  is  no  foe, 
I  shall  begin  to  doubt  thee !     Who  is  she 
To  thee  who  art  my  husband? 

Kent.  Margaret, 

Go  to  the  maiden  lying  yon  and  look 
Once  more  upon  her  vestal  face,  then  ask 
If  she  know  aught  of  guilt. 

[Margaret  looks  silently  toward  the  curtains] 

Mar.  [In  subdued  tone]   She's  there? 

Kent.  Poor  child! 

I  thought  you'd  be  her  gentle,  elder  sister, 
And  help  me  still  her  woeful  flutterings. 

[Turns  away] 


100  LORDS    AND    LOVERS 

Where's  now  the  proud,  sure  strength  that  made  discount 

Of  Heaven's  arm?     O,  reed-propped  vanities, 

Swelling  usurpful  till  ye  seem  our  life, 

Ye  must  come  down  that  we  may  find  ourselves 

And  God. 

Mar.     O,  take  me  back!     I  did  not  know 
This  spirit  dwelt  in  me.     One  of  my  race, 
A  woman,  long  ago,  stabbed  through  a  heart 
That  played  her  false,  yet  she  was  gentle  too, 
And  died  for  what  her  hand  had  done.     May  be 
The  unquiet  dead  come  back  to  live  in  us. 
O,  it  was  she  stirred  this  strange  passion  in  me. 
'Twas  not  myself.     Speak  to  me,  Hubert!     Say 
'Twas  not  myself. 

Kent.  [Embracing  her]  Sole  angel  of  my  love! 

Mar.  You'll  take  me  back?     Let  Time  begin  his  count 
One  minute  past,  and  leave  the  last  one  out. 
O,  say  a  word  will  sponge  it  from  the  day, 
Or  all  my  future  must  turn  back  its  face 
And  live  with  gazing  on  that  minute's  point. 

Kent.  It  was  not  you,  my  heart.     But  say  it  were, 
Should  I  pull  down  my  heaven  because  a  bird 
Makes  flying  blot  against  it?     'Tis  the  doubts 
That  darkly  flitting  show  love's  constant  sky 
Forever  radiant. 

Mar.  O  me!  O  me! 

And  this  is  shame ! 

Kent.  Nay,  sweet!    Weep,  if  you  must, 

But  let  thy  tears  be  rain  upon  the  soul 
Making  a  fair  new  season. 

Mar.  Let  me  die! 

Kent.  So    overwrought?     Thou    who    hast    been    my 
strength  ? 

Mar.  If  I  were  dead  then  you 

Kent.  Should  be  as  thou ! 


LORDS    AND    LOVERS  101 

'Tis  not  thy  death  but  Glaia's  that  would  be 
The  sad  solution  of  these  woes. 

Mar.  Not  her, 

So  fair  .  .  .  and  dear  to  us. 

Kent.  [Kissing  her]  My  gentle  love! 

.  .  .  'Twere  best  she  died,  who  now  must  drink  the  cup 
That  makes  death  sweet  in  coming.     I  myself 
Almost  could  guide  the  knife  unto  her  heart 
And  cut  off  ruder  visitors. 

Mar.  O,  veil 

The  thought.     Its  nakedness  has  chilled  my  soul. 

Kent.  Ay,  she  is  God's,  not  mine.     Leave  her  to  him. 
And  now,  my  life,  you,  too,  must  go  to  rest. 

Mar.  You'll  not  to  bed? 

Kent.  The  king  may  send  for  me. 

He  will  not  sleep,  for  in  his  face  was  woe 
Will  quiet  not  to  slumber. 

Mar.  O,  my  love, 

How  can  I  leave  thee  now?     If  thou  wert  held 
By  softest  sleep  on  pillows  of  content 
I  could  no  less  than  weep  to  go  from  thee, 
And  yet  these  tears  are  all  I  have  when  thou 
Art  left  to  sad,  despairing  watch.     I'll  stay, 
For  I've  no  words  to  part  with,  none  to  tell 
How  breaks  my  heart  in  going. 

Kent.  Nay,  I  must  work, 

And  you  will  call  my  wits  to  otherwheres; 
Then  in  the  morn  these  eyes,  undewed  with  sleep, 
Will  show  me  not  the  light  that  must  be  mine. 

Mar.  Dost  toy  with  words  to  me?     Not  in  my  eyes, 
But  in  my  heart  burns  thy  unfailing  torch, 
And  if  you  find  it  dim  it  is  thy  secret 
Casts  shade  between  us,  not  a  lack  in  me. 

Kent.  If  I  should  speak  then  oaths  were  straws  in  fire. 

Mar.  O,  no,  I  wrould  not  have  thee  speak.    That's  past. 


102  LORDS    AND    LOVERS 

'Tis  our  misfortune  that  we  are  divided 

In  this  most  pitchy  hour  that  in  itself 

Were  nothing  if  our  hearts  could  meet  and  melt 

In  unreserved  touch.     In  every  life 

There  comes  a  watch  the  soul  must  keep  alone. 

The  hour  has  struck  for  thine.     And  mine  I  feel 

Is  not  so  far  away.     Now,  now  I  go, 

My  lord.     Because  I  help  you  best  in  going. 

Our  hearts  would  rush  together,  and  the  pain 

Grows  in  them  baffled.     Dearer  than  life,  good  night. 

I  leave  my  prayers  like  candles  set  about  you, 

And  as  they  fail  think  of  me  on  my  knees 

Renewing  them  from  Heaven.     [Exit,  right] 

Kent.  Margaret ! 

[Pauses,  slowly  takes  up  the  light  and  goes  off,  left,  leav 
ing  the  room  in  darkness.     Curtain] 


SCENE  2.      The  same  room  in  darkness.     Margaret  enters, 
right,  carrying  a  taper. 

Mar.  I'll  look  upon  her.     When  sleep  slips  the  rein 
The  soul  plays  in  the  face  unguarded.     Then 
The  conscious  warder  holding  up  the  mask 
Before  the  secret  self  bares  all  defence 
Unheedful  of  approach.     I'll  look,  and  pray 
To  find  the  lineaments  so  pure  by  day 
Still  guileless  fair.     O,  that  'twere  yesterday — 
Sweet  yesterday — when  I  knew  not  nor  guessed 
The  sad  division  'tween  my  soul  and  Hubert's! 
O,  knowledge,  rude  defiler  of  our  dreams, 
How  oft  we'd  give  thy  hard,  substantial  store 
To  build  again  with  bright  illusion's  eye 
Our  happy  towers  on  the  inconstant  clouds: 
[Sees  a  light  through  curtains] 


LORDS    AND    LOVERS  103 

She's  up!     No  .  .  .  who  is  there? 

[Veils  her   taper.     Kent    comes  from   the   inner   room. 
He  carries  a  candle] 

Kent.  She  does  not  move. 

O,  Eleanor,  how  could  thy  heart  give  blood 
To  one  so  pure  that  he  who  loves  her  best 
Would  send  her  back  to  Heaven? 

Mar.  [Unheard  by  Kent}  Eleanor! 

Her  child!     Her  child! 

Kent.  Fair  Glaia,  may'st  thou  rest, 

Nor  ever  wake  till  angels  call  thee  up. 
[Looking  back]     Ay,  ay,  she  sleeps. 

[Exit,  left] 

Mar.  How  gracious  art  thou,  God, 

To  bless  me  so!     O,  wicked  Eleanor! 
This  was  the  fire  that  maddened  thee  to-night. 
Not  fear  for  Hubert.     How  couldst  make  his  life 
The  priceless  cloak  of  thy  own  worthless  shame? 
But  I  can  save  him !    I  will  make  thee  speak, 
Unsistered  woman! 

[Draws  back  the  curtains,  leaving  them  open,  showing 
the  inner  room  and  bed  on  which  Glaia  lies] 

Glaia,  now  I'll  look, 

Nor  all  thy  grace  shall  hide  the  lines  that  mark 
Thy  cruel  mother.     Can  this  be  the  face 
That  breeds  such  misery?     Fair  heaven-case 
Of  innocence !  .  .  .  My  Hubert's  niece,  so  mine. 
How  lily-cold  in  sleep!     And  still  ...  so  still. 
A  kiss  will  not  awake  thee — one  as  light 
As  my  own  heart.     So  cold?     O,  cold  as  death! 

[Draics  back  the  coverlet] 

Blood!    Blood!     A  dagger  here!     O  Heaven, 
That  this  smooth  coverlet  should  hide  so  much! 

[Stands  a  moment  in  silent  horror] 
And  Hubert  thought  she  slept.     "Rest  well,"  he  said, 


104  LORDS    AND    LOVERS 

"Nor  ever  wake  till  angels  call  thee  up." 
Nor  wilt  thou  wake  till  then,  poor  Glaia.     O, 
How  can  I  call  him  here  to  look  on  this ! 

[Takes  up  the  dagger] 

Strange  that  the  slayer  left  his  dagger  here. 
He  in  whose  heart  the  thought  of  murder  lives 
Has  more  of  cunning  in  him. 

[Drops  dagger  suddenly] 

Hubert's!     O! 

[Staggers  away  from  bed  and  holds  herself  up  by  the  cur 
tains.     Buries  her  face  for  an  instant,  then  looks  up 
blanched  and  determined] 
I  must  act  quickly.     O,  at  once — at  once! 
One  pause  may  be  the  grave  of  resolution. 
[Starts  toward  bed,  but  stops] 

"She  does  not  move,"  he  said  .  .  .  and  "ay,  she  sleeps," 
As  though  she  slept  eternally. 

[Goes  to  bed  and  takes  up  the  dagger] 

His  dagger. 

Oft  has  it  pleased  me  to  regard  this  hilt. 
Pearls  winding  like  a  milky  way  about 
A  turquoise  heaven.     Even  then  my  fate 
Lurked  in  the  blade.     Why  do  I  talk,  and  beg 
A  vile  delay?     Pain  is  sole  merchant  here, 
And  with  each  moment  amplifies  his  profit. 
...  I  will  not  pray,  for  prayer  is  softening, 
And  I  must  be  too  stern  to  pity  self. 
I  was  a  princess.     I'll  not  think  of  that, 
For  now  I  am  a  wife.     And  for  my  lord 
Must  die.     They'll  find  me  here,  and  say  the  deed 
Was  mine.     My  jealous  hand  avenged  my  wrong. 
.  .  .  O  gentle  Heaven,  he  is  not  worthy  this ! 
Nay,  nor  no  man,  and  yet  for  every  man 
There  lives  a  woman  who  would  die  for  him. 
[Lifts  the  dagger] 


LORDS    AND    LOVERS  105 

I  can  not  strike.     [Drops  her  arm]     I  must   .   .   .   ere  I 

go  mad 
And  leave  the  event  to  chance. 

[Lifts  dagger,  grows  faint  and  falls  with  a  cry  to  the  floor. 

Kent  enters,  left] 

Kent.  'Twas  Margaret's  voice.     My  love? 

[Advances  and  sees  Margaret  on  the  floor] 

O,  life  of  mine! 
[Looks  toward  bed] 

Glaia!     Uncovered — bleeding — dead!     Put  out 
My  eyes !     Out  .  .  .  out.     What  cruelty  yet  lives 
In  Heaven  to  show  me  this?     O,  Eleanor, 
Come,  come  and  see  how  thy  one  sin  has  grown 
To  widest  hell!     Thy  Glaia  dead  .  .  .  even  cold  .  .  . 
And  Margaret  .  .  .  not  dead  .  .  .  but  would  she  were! 

[Bends  over  her] 

Yea,  I  could  love  thee  then.     My  Margaret, 
Couldst  do  this  thing?     Thy  hand  was  ever  tender, 
And  oft  thou  coveredst  even  guilt  with  mercy. 
.  .  .  She  could  not  do  it.  ...  Ay,  she  could  .  .  .  she 

could. 

For  her  ancestral  steps  are  marked  with  blood, 
And  but  to-night  her  eye  flashed  with  a  look 
That  like  an  evil  star  did  point  to  this. 

[Knocking  without,  and  opening  of  gates] 
My  summons  from  the  king.     Ho,  Rufus? 

[Draws  coverlet 

over  Glaia' s  form]  Glaia, 

Thou  wert  the  bud  of  earth;  infinity 
Shall  wear  thy  blossom  and  be  proud. 

[Enter  attendant] 

Att.  My  lord? 

Kent.  Your    mistress    faints.     Call    up    her    women. 

Haste! 
[Exit  attendant.     Kent  takes  Margaret  in  his  arms  and 


106  LORDS    AND    LOVERS 

bears  her  off,  right.     Re-enters,  goes  to  curtains  and 
draws  them,  concealing  Glaia's  bed] 
O,  Henry,  now  thy  heart  is  struck. 

[Enter  an  attendant] 

Who  comes? 

Alt.  Your  grace,  I  do  not  know.     Strange  men  who  give 
No  name,  but  say  that  they  must  see  you. 

Kent.  Must? 

Admit  them. 

Alt.  Here,  your  grace? 

Kent.  Ay,  here. 

[Exit  attendant.     Kent  picks  up  dagger  from  the 
floor]  'Tis  mine. 

I'll  wear  my  own.     [Hangs  dagger  at  his  belt] 

Now  is  the  earl  of  Kent 
A  murderer.     How  feels  it  with  you,  sir? 
[Enter  officers  and  attendants] 
Officer.  My  lord  of  Kent,  you  are  our  prisoner. 
Kent.  By  whose  command? 
Off.  The  king's. 

Kent.  O,  April  heart, 

Dost  think  'twill  ne'er  be  winter?     What  the  crime? 

Off.  You're  charged,  on  pain  of  death,  to  show  the  son 
Of  Adelais,  of  France. 

Kent.  That  sin  is  old 

And  faded  now.     I  know  another  blots 
O'er  that.     I'll  burn  your  ears  with  't  as  we  go. 

[Exeunt.     Curtain] 


ACT    III 

SCENE  1.  A  small  altar  room  adjoining  the  king's  apart 
ment.  Henry  bowed  and  kneeling.  Enter  Winchester 
and  attendant. 

Att.  Since  morning  he  has  knelt,  and  sees  no  one. 
You  are  the  first  admitted. 

Win.  Dear  my  lord 

Hen.  [Rising  and  turning  to  Winchester] 
"Will  you,  too,  tell  me  she  is  dead? 

Win.  Alas— 

Hen.  O,  not  that  word — the  pretty  mask  of  woe, 
That  never  hid  a  tear.     If  she  is  dead, 
AVeep  and  be  dumb,  or  find  some  word  that  rends 
The  heart  in  uttering  it. 

Win.  My  lord 

Hen.  My  lord! 

You're  too  polite  a  mourner,  by  my  faith! 
O,  Glaia,  Glaia,  Glaia,  art  thou  dead? 
Canst  thou  then  sleep,  O,  God? 

Win.  That  he  does  sleep 

This  deed  is  proof. 

Hen.  What  deed?     'Tis  false!     She  lives. 

'Twas  blessed  yester  morn  I  held  her  here, 
And  heard  her  laugh  and  say  my  kisses  were 
Like  Maythorn  blossoms  dropping  on  her  hair. 
And  can  her  voice  be  still?     Nay,  fiends  themselves 
Love  music,  and  would  spare  to  put  so  much 

107 


108  LORDS    AND    LOVERS 

To  silence.     O,  in  her  tongue  the  nightingale 
Was  dead,  having  no  sweeter  cause  to  live. 
She  could  not  die.     A  thousand  thousand  angels 
Would  rush  to  save  her  and  with  silvery  wings 
Beat  back  the  assaulting  devil. 

Win.  Would  I  could  say 

She  lives !    You  drain  my  heart  with  every  tear 
You  drop  upon  this  woe.     Loved  majesty, 
Look  up  and  weep  no  more. 

Hen.  Stop  not  my  tears. 

They  shall  pour  sea-like  till  my  body  lies 
An  isle  overwhelmed.     My  eyes  could  lend  the  skies 
Another  flood  yet  lack  not  moisture.  .  .  .  Glaia! 
It  was  my  kiss  that  slew  thee.     But  for  me 
Thou  hadst  been  living  still.     So  Winter  springs 
To  clasp  his  blushing  Autumn  love,  then  spends 
His  weary  season  burying  her  dead  leaves. 

Win.  Rouse  you,  my  lord.     The  creature  is  alive 
That  slew  her. 

Hen.  He  is  found? — and  lives — and  you 

Stand  here  to  tell  me? 

Win.                         Hear  my  story,  sire. 
When  we  arrested  Kent 

Hen.  Arrested  Kent? 

You  could  not  wait?     Well,  we  shall  see,  my  lord, 
My  Glaia  loved  him  and  he  shall  not  die. 

Win.  The  moment  he  was  taken  he  confessed 
That  he  had  slain  the  maid 

Hen.  What  is  't  you  say? 

Now,  by  my  life,  I  thought  you  said  that  Kent — 
I'll  not  repeat  it — 'twas  so  strange  a  thing — 
I'm  numb  since  this  dark  news,  and  what  I  hear 
By  insurrection  of  my  wits  becomes 
What  I  hear  not. 

Win.  Recall  yourself,  my  lord. 


LORDS    AND    LOVERS  109 

Your  wits  are  loyal,  and  inform  you  rightly. 
I  said  'twas  Kent 

Hen.  Ha!    Now  the  devil  speaks 

In  his  own  person.     You've  thrust  the  cloven  foot 
Too  far  from  'neath  the  bishop's  gown. 

Win.  My  lord- 


Hen.  Now  I  read  back  and  take  the  hellish  measure 
Of  all  your  lies ! 

Win.  Your  majesty 

Hen.  Sir,  I  have  loved  this  man,  and  when  I  felt 
Too  weak  for  England's  throne,  I  laid  my  head 
Upon  his  breast  and  there  grew  strong  as  he. 
And  you  dare  say 

Win.  I  do  not  say,  my  liege, 

The  crime  is  his,  but  he  confessed  it  so. 
Here  are  the  words  in  which  he  damns  himself. 

[Gives  the  king  a  paper] 

Hen.  Drop  from  the  world,  O  sun!     Make  all  the  air 
Dark  as  my  heart,  that  from  this  hour  shall  know 
No  re-ascending  star !     Leave  me,  my  lord. 
All's  as  you  please.     Do  what  you  will.     The  world 
No  more  shall  draw  me  forth  to  look  upon  it. 
Yet  I  am  young,  and  had  but  learned  to  smile. 
[Enter  attendant] 

Att.  The  earl  of  Pembroke  begs  to  see  my  lord 
Of  Winchester. 

Hen.  Admit  him  here.     I'll  pray. 

[Turns  to  altar.     Enter  Pembroke} 

Win.  What  news,  your  grace? 

Pern.  'Tis  strange  enough,  my  lord. 
Kent's  wife,  the  princess  Margaret,  now  swears 
'Twas  she  who  took  the  maiden's  life,  and  speaks 
With  so  much  care  and  proof  of  circumstance 
I  scarce  can  doubt  her. 


110  LORDS    AND    LOVERS 

Win.  Margaret ! 

Pern.  No  other. 

She  says  'twas  she  alone,  and  not  her  husband. 

Win.  This  fortune  wears  our  colors.     Give  it  welcome. 
I  feared  she'd  rouse  all  England, — Scotland,  too, — 
In  Kent's  defence.     You  know  her  blood  of  old. 
But  now  her  hands  are  bound. 

Pern.  Then  you've  no  doubt 

'Twas  she? 

Win.     I  wish  to  have  none,  that's  enough 
To  shape  my  looks  by. 

[Henry  rises  and  comes  toward  them] 

Ah,  my  liege,  we  hear 
That  Margaret  is  author  of  the  crime 
We  now  bewail,  not  Kent. 

Hen.  That  it  was  either 

I  can  not  whip  my  senses  to  believe. 

Win.  She  has  confessed. 

Hen.  Why,  so  did  Kent.     This  shows 

A  gap  in  proof. 

Win.  Kent  thought  to  shield  his  wife. 

Hen.  Then  he  must  love  her  well,  and  yet  your  tongue 
Struck  hard  another  way.     Nay,  it  is  she 
Who  thinks  to  save  her  lord.     Poor  Margaret, 
Thou  hadst  done  better  to  have  wed  the  king. 

Win.  My  lord,  we  can  not  doubt  Kent  loved  this  maid. 
'Twas  as  apparent  as  the  light  to  eyes; 
And  he  would  pause  ere  put  her  from  his  arms 
To  bed  with  worms;  but  this  same  love  would  be 
Poor  Margaret's  bitter  cause  to  wish  her  dead; 
And  Jealousy,  we  know,  is  page  to  Murder, 
Holding  the  candle  for  the  hellish  stroke. 

Hen.  But  why  should  Kent  confess? 

Win.  With  all  his  sins, 

He  has  the  grace  of  chivalry,  and  thought 


LORDS    AND    LOVERS  111 

By  his  confession  to  save  Margaret, 

Not  caring  for  his  fate  since  he  was  doomed 

For  other  crime. 

Hen.  I'll  hear  no  more,  my  lord. 
A  woman  .  .  .  and  that  woman — Margaret. 

Win.  My  liege 

Hen.  No  more.     Here  is  my  seal.     'Tis  yours. 
And  now  I  beg  you  go.     Nothing  is  dear 
But  grief,  sole  link  'tween  me  and  love.     Leave  me, 
I  pray.  [Turns  to  altar] 

Win.  [Aside,  gloating]  Weep,  fool,  my  star  is  in  my 

hand! 
Pern.  God  send  you  comfort,  sire. 

[Exeunt  Winchester  and  Pembroke] 
Hen.  [To  attendant]         Let  none  approach  me. 

[Exit  attendant. 
Henry  sings] 

I  laid  a  rose  upon  my  heart, 

Ay  me! 
Soon  'gan  its  beauty  to  depart, 

Ay,  ay  me! 
I  nursed  it  with  desire, 

Still  did  its  beauty  go, 
For  O,  my  heart  was  fire, 
Cruel  fire! 

Ay  me,  I  did  not  know, 
I  did  not  know. 

[Enter  a  friar  through  panel  door  behind  altar] 
Art  thou  a  shadow  come  to  say 
All  men  are  shadows  and  naught  living  is? 

Friar.  I  come  to  give  God's  help  and  ask  for  thine, 
My  son  and  king. 

Hen.  'Tis  death,  sir,  thus  to  steal 

Into  my  presence. 


112  LORDS    AND    LOVERS 

Friar.  So  I  prove  my  love 

For  thee,  your  highness,  venturing  life  to  reach 
Thine  ear's  seclusion. 

Hen.  What  wouldst  tell  me,  father? 

I've  heard  your  voice  before  and  found  it  honest. 
By  that,  mayhap,  we'll  prove  old  friends.     Come  in. 

[Exeunt] 

\ 
SCENE  2.  A  prison  corridor.    Kent  alone. 

Kent.  Is  this  the  end  of  Kent?     The  block  and  axe 
His  porters  to  throw  ope  the  sealed  gate? 
I  thought  a  good  wife's  prayers  had  ushered  me, 
And  weeping  peers  had  held  my  garments  back 
Until  the  soul  disdained  to  hide  therein. 
.  .  .  What  value's  in  this  world  that  men  will  buy  't 
With  so  much  groaning?     This  strange  human  chaos 
Where  vice  is  often  merit,  merit  vice, 
Or  if  they  be  themselves  so  change  deserts 
That  wisdom  is  clapped  to  gallows,  folly  to  thrones, 
And  innocence  lifts  up  thin,  fettered  hands 
While  guilt  walks  angel  free.     Where  palsy  shakes 
The  pen  from  the  seer's  hand,  and  crowing  health 
Bids  fools  to  write ;   where  Fame  forgets  to  blush 
At  Flattery's  board,  and  Honor,  pendulous 
'Twixt  bribe  and  faith,  dwindles  inert  and  like 
A  withered  finger  shames  the  hand  of  state. 
.  .  .  Where  Margarets  can  stripe  their  souls'  pure  white 
With  guileless  blood.     She,  she  that  was  a  dove 
To  falcon  turn  and  rend  a  fledgling's  breast! 
It  casts  a  doubt  on  Heaven,  makes  of  faith 
A  leper  scourged  from  man's  hale  faculties, 
And  love  a  monster  of  diseased  minds ! 
Come,  dearest  Death,  and  mis-shaped  world  away! 
[Margaret  is  admitted,  left,  by  a  turnkey] 


LORDS    AND    LOVERS  113 

Turnkey.  You're  honest?     All  your  jewels,  ma'am? 

Mar.  Ay,  all! 

They  have  been  praised,  but  had  no  worth  till  now 
When  each  one  buys  a  minute  with  my  lord. 

[Exeunt  turnkey,  locking  door] 

[Margaret  comes  down  corridor  toward  Kent,  her  hands 
behind  her] 

Kent.  [Looking  up]  What  devil  drove  you  here? 

Mar.  Did  Hubert  speak? 

Kent.  What  do  you  want?     Why  hold  away  your  hands? 
Fear  not  that  I'll  embrace  thee! 

Mar.  What  art  thou? 

Kent.  Nothing  to  thee,  whatever  else  I  am. 
Away!     For  Death  and  I  have  just  locked  hands. 
One  moment  more  and  I  had  cozened  him 
Of  all  his  pain.     But  you,  dear,  damned  foe, 
Take  up  his  weapons  and  re-gash  my  wounds. 

Mar.  Is  this  my  lord? 

Kent.  Go.     I  command  you.     Go! 

Eternity  drops  on  me,  and  lightfoot  Time 
Hies  like  a  ghost  to  nothing.     What  dost  here? 

Mar.  I  die. 

Kent.  You  die?    No  fear  of  that.     You  are 
Too  great  a  lover  of  this  life  that  vaunts 
A  bloated  bubble  'twixt  immortal  shores. 

Mar.  If  once  'twere  true — if  once  I  loved  this  world — 
Thy  bitter  words  have  sucked  desire  to  live 
From  all  my  senses.     As  a  god  I  held  thee, 
Now  mocking  gods  bid  me  look  on  whilst  thou 
Deport 'st  thyself  'neath  mortal.     Sir,  what  plague 
Hast  met?     What  conjuration  of  the  skies 
Disfigures  thee? 

Kent.  The  same  that  made  thyself 

A  woman.     Back  unto  your  world! 

Mar.  O,  true 


114  LORDS    AND    LOVERS 

I  loved  this  life,  and  held  a  heart  not  dead 

To  music,  beauty,  sweet  and  warm  delights, 

An  interest  in  the  season-robing  earth, 

An  entertained  eye  for  fortune's  chance, 

And  too  pretentiously  I  sighed  to  leave 

The  unfollowed  steps  of  fair  and  flying  Truth, 

And  last,  poor  woman,  shrank  to  change  thine  arms 

For  the  cold  circlet  of  Elysian  clouds; 

But  you,  pervert  and  monstrous,  work  my  peace, 

Unto  my  eyes  deforming  all  the  world 

And  making  the  unknown  more  dear  than  dream. 

Kent.  I  monstrous?     O,  thou  shame!     To've  died  for 

you 

Were  scarcely  more  than's  done  each  day  for  love; 
But  I  for  you  have  heaped  my  name  with  crime, 
Crime  that  will  damn  my  reputation's  snow 
While  lasts  the  world  and  men  recount  old  tales ! 

Mar.   'Twas  for  my  sake  you  did  it !    Ah,  I  know. 
You  loved  me  well.     Would  you  had  known  me  better, 
Or  loved  me  less !     O,  how  couldst  think  my  life 
Would  flower  with  happiness  when  sacrifice 
Of  one  as  dear  to  Heaven  as  myself 
Lay  burning  at  its  root?    Nay,  I  must  wither 
Unto  this  world,  but  as  I  fall  thy  name 
Grows  fairer,  for  I  have  confessed  'twas  I. 
For  love  of  me  you  sinned.     The  punishment 
Is  mine. 

Kent.  Confessed?     You  have  confessed?    No,  no! 

Mar.  I  shall  be  soon  forgot,  but  your  great  name 
Will  live,  and  since  it  must,  or  dark  or  bright, 
I  would  remove  as  much  of  foulness  from  it 
As  blood  of  mine  will  cleanse. 

Kent.  You  have  confessed! 

O,  God  of  truth,  let  man  trust  to  thy  mercy, 
Not  hope  to  cheat  thy  justice!    You  confessed? 


LORDS    AND    LOVERS  115 

Already  I  was  doomed,  but  you — you  might 
Have  lived.     Ay,  and  you  shall! 

[Comes  near  her  and  sees  that  Jier  hands  are  fettered] 

In  fetters?     You? 

By  holy  Heaven,  though  giants  forged  these  on 
I'd  strip  them  off!       [Breaks  her  fetters] 

Mar.  O,  let  me  wear  them,  sir! 

My  bond  of  blessedness — for  I  am  blest 
In  dying  for  your  sin ! 

Kent.  That  word  again? 

My  sin? 

Mar.  Forgive  me,  Hubert.     'Twas  no  sin. 
Indeed,  'twas  none.     For  you  were  not  yourself. 
'Twas  madness.     Heaven  must  forgive  it  thee. 

Kent.  God  help  thee,  Margaret!    Wouldst  say  I  did  it? 

Mar.  Not  you,  but  heavy,  secret  woe  that  bred 
A  demon  in  your  blood  to  strike  poor  Glaia,— 
And  too-dear  love  of  me  which  vainly  hoped 
To  give  me  peace  where  never  peace  could  be. 
O,  look  not  so!     At  God's  own  throne  'twill  be 
Forgiven  thee,  for  surely  thou  wert  tried 
As  Heaven  tries  its  own. 

Kent.  Art  mad  at  last? 

Thy  crime  confessed  to  all  the  world,  and  yet 
Denied  to  me,  the  only  heart  that  knows? 

[She  gazes  at  him,  bewildered] 
Poor  soul,  her  madness  has  been  slow  enough. 
Come,  bruised  darling,  with  thy  blood-stained  hands! 
Thou    'rt   mine,    my    only   love!     [Embracing   her.     She 
moves  from  him] 

Mar.  'Tis  you  that  speak 

Wild  words.     My  blood-stained  hands?     They're  free  of 

blood 

As  the  pure  angel's  who  writes  golden  down 
The  saintliest  deeds  of  men! 


116  LORDS    AND    LOVERS 

Kent.                                       Whatever  thy  words, 
Thine  eyes  are  true,  and  there's  no  madness  in  them. 
But,  Margaret,  I  found  thee  by  her  side 

Mar.  'Twas  there  I  swooned 

Kent.  The  dagger  in  thy  hand 

Mar.  Yes,  in  my  hand,  but,  Hubert — hear  me,  Hubert ! 
I  saw  you  come  from  Glaia's  curtained  bed, 
Slow  and  despairing,  murmuring  "She  sleeps," 
As  though  you  said  she  slept  to  wake  no  more. 
I  entered,  saw  her  pale,  drew  back  the  coverlet- 
There,  ran  the  stream  that  drained  her  beauty's  rose — 
There  lay  your  dagger — yours.     And  then  I  thought 
By  dying  there  to  save  your  life  and  name, 
But  fainted,  O,  too  soon 

Kent.  My  heart,  my  heart! 

O,  had  I  done  such  deed  would  I  have  left 
My  dagger  to  confess  it  ?     Glaia  called — 
Not  so — I  dreamed  she  called — and  going  there, 
Found  her  in  deepest  sleep — or  thought  I  found 
Her  so — and  touched  her  not  lest  she  should  stir 
And  know  her  woes  again. 

Mar.  It  was  not  you? 

Kent.  That  question   makes  your  tongue   a   dagger's 

point, 

And  yet  my  doubt  of  you  was  deeper  wrong, 
Measuring  all  the  difference  between 
Man's  grosser  soul  and  woman's  altar-lit. 
O,  Margaret,  some  serpent  heart  planned  well 
To  do  this  deed  and  leave  the  guilt  with  me. 

Mar.  Who — who,  my  Hubert?     Nay,  it  matters  not, 
Since  'twas  not  you — not  you!     In  two  small  words 
My  heaven  is  built  again ! 

Kent.  We  ne'er  shall  know. 

I've  foes  enough,  and  one  of  them  perhaps 
So  sought  to  cast  me  deeper  by  this  crime, 


LORDS    AND    LOVERS  117 

And  we  shall  wear  his  foul  and  scarlet  mark 
Even  unto  our  graves, — for  we  must  die. 

Mar.  Enough  that  we  die  sinless. 

Kent.  O,  my  love, 

Who  would  have  died  for  me ! 

Mar.  And  you,  dear  lord, 

Who  took  such  shame  upon  you  for  my  sake! 

Kent.  Death  was  already  on  me,  and  'twas  naught 
To  make  addition  to  my  guilt.     But  you, 
Your  heart  not  pausing,  leapt  from  safety's  shore 
Into  the  flood.     O,  might  I  live  for  thee ! 
A  blessed  bondman  to  thy  merest  wish, 
From  hour  to  hour  to  watch  thy  graces  bloom 
As  various  as  Flora  when  she  loves, 
And  in  each  furrow  of  thy  brow  that  writ 
Thee  mortal  set  a  new  April  mocking  Time! 
Then  when  no  more  I  could  dispute  his  doom, 
Enter  with  thee  a  star-lit,  sweet  old  age, 
The  fane  of  rest,  and  sanctuary  where 
All  sorrows  take  their  ease. 

Mar.  Think  thou  of  Heaven. 

Kent.  But  O,  how  dear  this  life !     The  immortal  world 
Is  shrunk  to  shadow  of  a  single  thought, 
And  this  contemned  earth  is  sudden  grown 
Past  circumscription  of  the  mind's  fond  eye. 
No-no — we  must  not  die! 

Mar.  Wouldst  tremble  now? 

When  thou  hast  love  beside  thee?     Nay,  my  lord, 
Be  yet  the  man  of  men,  whose  virtue  drew 
My  wild  resisting  heart  into  its  sun. 

Kent.  O,  must  we  leave  it  all? — the  gracious  earth 
Where  we  have  loved,  and  heard  the  robins  sing, 
And  built  our  nest  that  song  might  never  cease? 
Ah,  I  am  weak,  my  sweet,  and  shine  but  in 
The  doting  tear  that  dims  a  true  wife's  eye. 


118  LORDS    AND    LOVERS 

Mar.   'Tis  not  my  love  that  paints  thee  radiant, 
But  thy  own  light  illumes  my  eyes  to  love. 
O,  lord  of  mine,  the  kings  of  earth  in  vain 
May  hope  to  be  thy  shadowy  parallel, 
And  where  we  go,  in  any  court  of  air 
Or  cloud  or  heaven,  still  must  thou  be  the  one 
Excelling  star. 

Kent.  [Clasping  her]  Heart  of  the  sun,  beat  here ! 
O,  thy  immortal  fire  will  make  Death  warm 
Ere  he  can  make  thee  cold. 

[The  turnkey  opens  door  at  end  of  corridor] 

Mar.  My  life,  my  soul ! 

Kent.  O,  God!     Celestial  marshaller  of  chance 
To  some  far  end  of  good,  let  me  believe 
Thy  hand  is  here,  and  even  on  our  heads. 
[The  turnkey  comes  down] 
Ah,  kiss  me,  kiss  me,  Heaven's  Margaret. 
Could  I  my  life  concentrate  in  one  beat 
I'd  dwarf  it  so  and  give  it  in  this  kiss. 

[Curtain] 


SCENE  3.     A  room  in  the  earl  of  Albemarle's  palace.     A 
friar,  and  the  king  in  friar's  dress,  but  uncowled,  waiting. 

Hen.  This  is  a  fitting  room  for  Death's  cold  jest; 
So  proudly  hung,  and  filled  with  comfort's  chattels, 
As  though  its  owner  hoped  long  respite  from 
A  clayey  bed.     Where  is  the  tenant,  father? 

Friar.  She'll  enter  presently, — ah,  even  now. 

[Henry  puts  on  cowl.     Enter  lady  Albemarle,  bearing  a 
small  box  which  she  holds  to  her  bosom] 

La.  Alb.  Father,  hast  brought  the  holy  man?    The  saint 
Whose  prayer  may  save  the  soul  already  damned. 

Fr.  Good  daughter 


LORDS    AND    LOVERS  119 

La.  Alb.  Ha!     Good  devil!     That  were  better! 
He's  here?    Well,  send  him  back.    I've  changed  my  mind. 
I  will  not  see  him, — no,  nor  you ! 

Fr.  Farewell. 

La.  Alb.  Nay,  do  not  go !    Wouldst  leave  a  soul  in  hell 
For  humor  of  the  tongue? 

[Friar  returns  to  her]  My  soul?     Pah,  sir! 
You  think  a  priest  can  save  it?     I  want  not 
Your  prayers,  but  your  good  service  to  set  right 
A  wrong.     Don't  mumble  over  me!     I  speak 
Because  I'm  dying.     Had  I  hope  to  live, 
Then  right  might  shift  for  itself.     And  you  call  this 
Repentance !     Pah !     Who  can  keep  mum  when  death 
Turns  the  last  screw?     You  know  the  earl  of  Kent? 
My  brother? 

Fr.  Yes,  my  daughter. 

La.  Alb.  I  know  that 

Will  make  his  peace  with  Henry — foolish  king ! 
I  must  go  back  to  tell  you — years  and  years. 
[Turns  away  as  if  musing] 

Fr.  Speak,  lady,  in  God's  name. 

La.  Alb.  Ill  tell  you  all. 

But  I'll  not  kneel.     I've  lived  too  much  on  knees. 
.  .  .  See?     Albemarle!    He  has  as  many  bodies 
As  he  has  wishes  to  keep  spy  on  me. 
.  .  .  He's  gone,  and  did  not  speak.     He  never  speaks, 
But  there's  a  sort  of  beast  sits  in  his  heart 
That  growls  and  I  do  hear  it. 

Fr.  Peace,  good  lady. 

La.  Alb.  Ah,  good  again.     Foul,  foul  and  villainous! 
Come  here,  thou  holy  man.     To  you  I'll  speak. 
Dost  think  that  ever  I  was  beautiful, 
And  these  long  locks  once  bound  a  king  to  me? 

Hen.  A  king? 

La.  Alb.  Ay,  royal  John.     A  king  indeed ! 


120  LORDS    AND    LOVERS 

Angel  to  me  though  devil  to  the  world. 

None  loved  him  but  his  Eleanor, — none,  none! 

The  rest  were  mistresses  unto  his  throne. 

I  gave  my  heart,  he  took  me  up  to  his. 

Ah,  father,  do  you  think  that  is  my  sin? 

That  is  my  joy,  my  glory,  my  one  pride. 

I'll  ne'er  repent  it  until  I  repent 

That  e'er  I  smiled  or  felt  myself  alive. 

Repent?     Nay,  father,  not  till  I  believe 

That  marble  women  are  more  dear  to  God 

Than  we  whose  hearts  are  warm  with  the  same  love 

That  beat  in  His  when  worlds  leapt  from  His  joy. 

Come  back,  O  golden  summer,  when  there  dwelt 

Two  happy  beings  in  a  magic  wood, 

Treading  not  earth  but  soft  enchantment's  air, 

Until  the  beast  came!     There,  do  you  not  see  him? 

Away,  black  Albemarle!     O,  mercy,  Heaven! 

.  .  .  Then  there  was  Glaia,  bud  of  our  true  love 

Hen.  Glaia ! 

La.  Alb.  O,  happy  I,  when  he  my  king 
Bent  over  me  and  said,  "Sweet,  she  is  ours!" 

Hen.  My  sister! 

La.  Alb.  What  dost  say?  Thy  sister?  Ha! 
Base  monk,  I  tell  thee  that  her  blood  was  royal 
As  Henry's  own!  Ay,  nobler!  Who  shall  say 
My  spirit  leapt  not  o'er  pale  Isabel's? 

[Retreats  to  couch  by  which  is  a  small  table.    Puts  box  on 
table  and  lays  her  head  upon  it,  weeping] 

Hen.  Then  Glaia  was  my  sister.     Did  you  hear? 

Fr.  I  heard  what  I  well  knew  before 
By  my  heart's  guess,  but  had  no  proof  of  it. 

La.   Alb.  [Starting  up]     Hear,   father!    You've   heard 

nothing  yet.     Last  night 
I  killed  her.     Do  you  hear?     I  killed  her. 

Hen.  O! 


LORDS    AND    LOVERS  121 

La.   Alb.  You   hear?     Ay,   for   you   gasp   and   mutter 

prayers. 

I  thought  to  go  and  watch  her  while  she  slept, 
And  walked  a  devil  with  me  who  held  close 
A  dagger — Hubert's — that's  my  brother,  monk. 
Still,  still,  ye  swirling  fiends  that  in  my  brain 
Keep  your  hot  dance!     Be  still!  .  .  .  She  lay  asleep, 
Pain  in  her  heart  and  beauty  on  her  brow; 
Her  curls — her  father's  curls — around  her  face. 
One  fell  upon  my  wrist — and  see,  a  burn, 
As  though  its  gold  were  fire.     She  turned  to  me, 
And  murmured  as  her  father  did  in  sleep; 
Then  in  my  hand  the  knife  arose,  and  fell, 
And  as  my  brain  rocked  sick  I  heard  him  say, 
My  lover,  bending  o'er  me,  "She  is  ours." 

[Pauses] 

Hen.  And  then? 

La.  Alb.  What  next  I  know  not,  but  I  think 
Some  cunning  led  me  to  conceal  the  deed 
And  make  escape.     I  left  the  dagger  there. 
'Twas  Hubert's.     You  had  best  be  quick,  or  harm 
Will  come  to  him.     The  world  is  such  a  fool! 
But  wait — O,  wait  till  I  am  dead!     I  am 
A  coward  born,  and  life  has  bred  me  such. 
Hark!     Albemarle  is  coming!     Lock  the  door! 
[Runs  to  tJie  table  and  takes  up  the  box] 
Look — in  this  box — my  lover's  letters — see! 
I  have  the  key.     I'll  give  it  to  the  devil, 
And  Albemarle  may  look  for  it  in  hell. 
O,  I  am  dying !     Hide  them  for  me,  priest. 
My  letters  from  my  king.     I'll  burn  them  all. 
Xay,  nay,  sweet,  pretty  words,  lie  down  with  me. 
Together  we'll  grow  cold.     Ye'd  fire  enough, 
God  wot!     [Lies  on  couch] 

Glaia  is  dead.     Be  quiet  now. 


122  LORDS    AND    LOVERS 

Hast  heard  I  was  her  mother?     There's  a  secret — 
No — no — I  must  not  speak  it — but  'twill  out 
By  doomsgate,  so  they  say.     You  are  a  priest; 
Canst  tell  how  far  'tis  from  the  grave  to  hell  ? 
You  think  they'll  let  me  lie  a  little  first 
And  see  how  'tis  to  sleep?     'Tis  a  long  walk, 
I'll  lie  quite  still,  and  give  no  trouble — none. 

[Dies] 

Hen.  Help!     Something  to  revive  her. 

Fr.  It  were  vain. 

Earth  has  not  such  restorative. 

Hen.  Not  dead? 

Fr.  The  heavenly  amaranth  alone  can  dew 
Her  brow  with  life. 

Hen.  O,  Hubert!    What  am  I? 

Let  me  crawl  to  thy  feet,  cast  off  my  crown 
As  I  cast  off  this  cowl,  and  lie  in  dust 
Before  thee !     O,  too  late !     [To  friar] 

'Tis  as  you  guessed. 
And  each  confessed  in  sacrificial  love 
Hoping  to  save  the  other.     Tell  me  now 
Who  plays  the  angel  here? 

Fr.  My  liege,  one  who 

Would  not  be  here  but  that  he  fears  no  death. 
[Removes  his  cowl] 

Hen.  Roland! 

Wynne.  My  king ! 

Hen.  Not  king,  but  friend, 

And  equal  in  this  woe.     Rise!     'Tis  no  time 
To  kneel.     What  must  we  do?     Now  Margaret 
Is  safe — but  Hubert?     Even  now  they  doom  him. 
Barons  and  church  are  leagued  to  prove  him  guilty, 
Nor  have  I  power  against  their  proof  to  pardon 
And  keep  my  throne. 

Wynne.  Take  courage.     Thou  art  king. 


LORDS    AND    LOVERS 

Hen.  To  th'  tower  then.     If  majesty  is  ye* 
A  word  of  might,  well  dare  them  all. 

Wynne.  Now  speaks 

Yourself. 

Hen.  IH  be  the  king! 

Wynne.  You  fin  my  heart 

With  singing  prophecies. 

Hen.  But  first  well  give 

An  order  for  the  noble  burial 
Of  this  poor  woman.     Glaia's  mother,  Roland. 
She  called  me  brother,  and  would  have  ft  so. 
An,  little  sister,  did  the  angels  tefl  you? 
You  lived  so  much  with  them.  .  .  .  Twas  I  who  killed  her. 
My  very  hand,  and  not  this  poor  mad  woman's. 
I  slew  them  both.     Oh,  oh,  oh! 

Wynne.  Dear  my  lord, 

Leave  grief  unto  the  grave,  that  ft  best  decks; 
Tne  firing  call  us  now. 

Hen.  You  talk  so,  sir, 

Who  did  not  love  her. 

Wynne.  O,  my  lord! 

Hen.  YoudU. 

Forgive  me,  friend,  that  I  forgot  your  heart. 

Wynne.  If  constancy  past  sacrifice  of  hope 
Is  love,  I  loved  her,  sire.     If  to  be  tne 
To  every  wish  that  rises  from  her  grave 
Is  love,  I  love  her  still.     But  you,  my  liege, 
Cloud  your  fidelity,  wasting  in  tears 
The  moments  now  devoted  by  the  stars 
To  rescue  one  she  loved. 

Hen.  Shame  me  no  more. 

Well  give  an  order  here,  then  to  the  tower! 


ACT   IV 

SCENE  1.  The  council  chamber  in  the  Tower  of  London. 
Barons  and  prelates  assembled.  Archbishop  of  Canter 
bury  presiding.  Princess  Adelais  present,  attended  by 
several  French  nobles  and  her  women.  She  advances 
before  the  archbishop. 

Ade.  Ye  peers  of  England,  and  ye  men  of  God, 
Humbly  I  make  my  suit.     Not  as  a  princess 
With  vassal  pomp  and  power  to  awe  the  eye 
And  judgment  take  fore-captive,  though  a  score 
Of  buried  kings  have  dowered  me  with  veins 
Of  high  regality;   nor  sue  I  with 
The  holy  potency  of  Heaven's  pontiff, 
Though  his  own  mouth  would  speak  if  I  were  silent, 
As  speak  the  skies  when  tempests  chasten  earth. 
But  here,  my  lords,  a  lonely  woman  kneels; 
A  weary  mother  weeping  her  lost  son. 
You  know  how  all  my  better  years  were  spent 
In  that  dark  wild  where  wander  minds  dethroned. 
When  the  dear  world  came  back  to  me,  my  cry 
Was  for  my  babe — no  more  a  babe,  but  up 
To  manhood  shot  as  in  a  single  hour. 
And  as  the  hunger  takes  some  starving  wretch, 
Desire  upon  me  seized  to  know  his  love, 
And  on  his  breast  to  die.      My  lords,  mayhap 
I  am  as  old  as  is  the  oldest  here, 
But  O,  so  poor  in  time.      I've  but  that  youth, 

124 


UNIVERSITY    D 

CF  / 

/LORDS    AND    LOVERS  125 

Brief  youth  that  held  its  morning  roses  up 
And  fled,  and  this  bare,  aged  now  that  drops 
But  aching  moments  till  I've  found  my  son. 

Cant.  Rise,  royal  Adelais!     Believe  that  we 
Have  hearts  of  men,  and  know  the  love  of  mothers. 
But  to  give  back  your  son  belongs  to  Him 
Whose  voice  doth  open  graves  and  call  the  dead. 

Ade.  My  heart  cries  that  he  lives!     O,  he  was  here 
Five  years  ago — five  little  years.     Why,  'twas 
But  yesterday!     This  letter  tells  you,  sirs. 
"Brave  and  right  royal.     Great  Henry's  worthy  son." 
This  letter  from  the  man  who  guarded  him, 
Geoffrey  de  Burgh,  an  honest,  good  old  man, 
And  faithful  to  his  king.     He  could  not  have 
A  son  so  cruel  as  to  kill  my  son, 
Or  rob  the  world  of  what  did  so  adorn  it 
And  yet  none  know. 

Cant.  In  grief  I  say  'tis  so; 

And  England  lies  in  shame  that  her  chief  lord, 
Raised  to  administer  her  vaunted  justice, 
Should  prove  so  base,  so  foul,  that — 

Ade.  O,  my  lord, 

He  must  be  nobler  than  you  think,  else  would  your  king 
Lift  him  so  high? — make  him  his  friend, 
And  with  an  earldom  top  his  risen  fortune? 
May  be  he  overcapped  too  many  whom 
His  guilt  would  please  more  than  his  innocence. 

Cant.  We've  given  him  fair  and  open  trial.     Urged  him 
In  name  of  God  and  England  to  declare 
His  knowledge  of  the  precious  living  charge 
His  father  left  to  him.     But  he  is  brazen 
In  flat  denial. 

Ade.  O,  your  eminence, 

May  I  not  see  him?     Let  me  plead  for  truth 
With  a  poor  mother's  tears. 


126  LORDS    AND    LOVERS 

Cant.  You  will  but  hear 

The  unblushing  lie  which  we  have  sought  to  spare  you. 

Ade.  O,  let  me  see  him! 

Cant.  Kent,  step  forth  and  tell 

This  suffering  princess  what  you  will. 

Kent.  [Coming  out  from  guards]      Dear  madam, 
Your  tears  are  suitors  to  my  pity 

Ade.  Henry! 

Kent.  Each  drop  a  supplicant  that  I  would  ease 
Were  such  sweet  power  mine.     But,  by  my  soul, 
And  by  the  mother's  love  I  never  knew 
Though  dreamed  on,  I  am  innocent  of  blood, 
Nor  did  I  ever  see  or  know  your  son. 

Ade.  Ah,  I  have  found  him,  lords!     O,  you  old  men, 
If  any  here  be  old,  do  you  not  hear 
The  mighty  Henry  speak  in  this  young  voice? 
My  grandsire,  Louis,  bends  that  brow  on  me, 
That  eye  has  flashed  such  light  from  'neath  a  crown. 
[To  Kent]     Be  not  amazed;  thou  art  my  only  born. 
Thy  mother's  heart  could  not  so  falsely  beat 
As  to  deny  thee !     England,  be  glad  with  me ! 

Count  de  Rouillet.  O,  pity,  Heaven!     She  is  mad  again. 

Win.  Take  her  away. 

Ade.  Away?     When  I  have  found  him? 
By  those  blest  stars  that  drew  my  feet  to  his, 
I'll  not  go  hence  till  he  may  go  with  me! 

Kent.  Dear  lady,  go.     I'll  come  to  thee  in  time. 

Ade.  I  am  thy  mother.     Wilt  not  call  me  so? 
I've  cleared  my  vision  with  a  sea  of  tears 
And  can  not  be  deceived. 

Cant.  Wouldst  call  a  villain  son?     A  man  condemned? 
Whose  headsman  waits  even  now? 

Ade.  What  has  he  done? 

God  does  not  lie,  and  'twas  his  hand  that  writ 
This  countenance  to  mark  a  noble  mind, 


LORDS    AND    LOVERS  127 

And  not  to  be  a  villain's  fair  decoy. 

Ah,  murder  him,  but  the  same  axe  will  strike 

My  life  away,  for  never  shall  he  go 

From  out  my  arms! 

One  of  Jier  women.  Come,  dearest  lady. 

Win.  Ay, 

She  must  depart.  [To  Rouillet]  Pray,  lead  her  off,  my  lord. 
She  interrupts  the  court. 

Ade.  You'd  force  me,  sir? 

Ah,  true,  I  am  in  England.     O,  my  lords, 
I  beg  you  let  me  stay!     I'll  not  disturb  you, 
But  sit  as  quiet  as  the  stone  I  am. 

[Takes  a  seat.     Her  women  attend  her] 
You  see,  my  lords,  I'm  calm.     I  have  no  son. 

Win.  [To    Canterbury]     This    time   is    poorly    spared. 
Pray  you,  proceed. 

Cant.  Hear  then  your  sentence,  Hubert,  earl  of  Kent, 
And  Margaret,  his  wife,  stand  forth  with  him. 
Unto  the  block  you  both  shall  go  forthwith 

A  guard  at  door.  The  king! 

Win.  The  king?     The  doors  are  closed  to  all! 

Hen.  [Entering]  All  but  the  king,  lord  bishop.   Margaret, 
I  bring  a  gift — your  freedom.     Ah,  you  sinned 
When  you  confessed  your  guilt,  but  not  before. 
Our  dearest  Glaia  died  not  by  your  hand, 
Nor  yet  by  Kent's.     First,  lords,  know  you 
The  maiden  was  the  daughter  of  my  father — 
Ay,  ay,  there's  proof.     She  was  the  child  of  John 
And  a  fair  lady  of  his  court  and  ours, 
Who,  dying,  made  confession  to  her  priest 

Win.  A  priest  ?    We  know,  my  lord  and  king,  that  priests 
Oft  sell  reports  unto  the  devil's  purse. 

Hen.  That  from  a  churchman? 

Win.  Would  an  honest  priest 

Betray  confession? 


128  LORDS    AND    LOVERS 

Hen.  This  was  given,  sir, 

For  open  use  in  Kent's  defence.     In  short, 
I  was  that  priest,  my  lord,  and  played  the  monk 
To  better  purpose  than  I've  played  the  king. 

Cant  Your  majesty 

Hen.  Is  pleased  to  speak,  your  grace 

This  then,  my  lords,  proves  Kent  had  holy  reason 
For  thwarting  my  vain  love. 

Alb.  Could  this  be  true 

And  Kent  not  speak  when  a  bare  word  had  saved  him? 

Hen.  Have  you  been  home  to-day,  my  lord? 

Alb.  My  liege, 

Since  morn  I've  ridden  hard,  and  was  much  pushed 
To  arrive  in  season  for  the  trial. 

Hen.  What  news 

From  north? 

Alb.  'Twas  south  I  rode,  your  majesty, 
About  my  shore  estates. 

Pern.  Sire,  I  informed  you 

Hen.  Ay,  so. 

Alb.  What  should  I  do  at  home,  my  liege? 

Hen.  Comfort  your  lady,  who  fast  droops  to  death. 

Alb.  My  wife?     But  she  was  well  when  I  set  forth. 

Hen.  You'll  find  her  changed!     But  we  must  speak 

of  Kent. 

My  lords,  he  was  close  pledged  not  to  betray 
The  maiden's  parentage  for  this  good  reason. 
Her  mother  was  his  sister,  living  in  dread 
Of  her  harsh  present  lord,  and  she  besought, 
Past  power  to  resist,  his  oath  to  die 
Ere  he  should  make  it  known.     I  know  not  who 
Of  you  would  prove  so  true  to  oaths  if  death 
Lay  in  the  keeping,  or  what  hearts  are  here 
Would  drain  themselves  to  guard  a  sister's  life. 

Cant.  Who  is  this  sister,  sire? 


LORDS    AND    LOVERS  129 

Alb.  This  shows  that  kings 

May  even  be  duped  like  poorer  men.     All  know 
That  Kent's  sole  sister  is  my  countess. 

Hen.  Sir, 

We've  no  mind  to  deny  you.     It  is  she 
We  mean, — the  lady  Albemarle. 

[Albemarle  staggers] 

Pern.  My  lord 

Alb.  Air!   Stand  from  me!    Give  way!   I  must  be  gone! 

Hen.  We  must  command  you  stay. 

Alb.  This  air  is  poison! 

Hen.  Stay,  sir! 

Alb.   I  say  not  to  the  king  'tis  false, 
But  to  each  British  lord  who  hears  I  swear 
'Tisafoul  lie! 

Hen.  My  ears,  sir,  registered 
Her  last  confession,  that  'twas  her  hand  struck 
Her  daughter's  heart,  her  child  and  John's. 

Alb.                                                                Let  go! 
It  was  her  malady  that  spoke.     I'll  to  her 
And  rival  death  in  tortures!     God,  I  will 

Hen.  Death  has  outstripped  you,  sir.     Her  breath  is 
gone. 

Alb.  Then  I'll  inflict  her  body  till  her  ghost 
Comes  back  to  shriek  in  it! 

Hen.  You're  yet  too  late. 

We've  given  orders  for  her  due  interment 
As  mother  of  our  sister. 

Alb.  Ha!     My  servants! 
You  guard  my  house? 

Hen.  We  do,  my  lord. 

Win.  [Aside  to  Canterbury]  Haste,  sir, 

Or  Kent  will  yet  escape. 

Cant.  Your  majesty, 

The  lady  Margaret,  thanks  to  Heaven  and  you, 


130  LORDS    AND    LOVERS 

Is  now  at  liberty,  but  the  life  of  Kent 
Is  forfeited.     He  must  at  once  to  doom. 

Hen.  Already  sentenced,  sir?     You're  hasty  reaching 
Your  black  conclusion.     Stay  a  little 

Cant.  Sire, 

We  moved  with  deference,  respecting  him 
Who  for  a  time  had  lived  within  your  bosom. 
To  longer  stay  his  death  would  tempt  the  skies 
To  draw  their  mercy  from  us,  seeing  it  were 
So  basely  used.     Guards  here  for  Kent! 

Hen.  O,  stay 

One  moment,  please  your  eminence.     My  lord 
Of  Winchester,  I'd  see  again  the  papers 
First  gave  excuse  to  put  this  guilt  on  Kent. 

Win.  And  here  they  are,  my  liege. 

[Gives  him  papers] 

There  you  will  read 

Of  the  great  trust  consigned  by  Henry  Second 
To  Geoffrey  de  Burgh,  and  by  him  to  his  son, 
As  Adelais  brings  proof. 

[Enter  Wynne,  carrying  a  small  box] 

Wynne.  Your  majesty 

Hen.  [Reading]  Your  patience !    Presently  we'll  hear  you. 

Pern.  What! 

The  lord  of  Wynne  returned? 

Alb.  Returned!    I  doubt 

If  he  has  seen  salt  water.    , 

Pern.  But  I  hope 

He  has  not  bent  a  wizard's  eye  upon 
Our  secrets. 

Hen.         Hear,  my  lords,  this  paper  given 
By  dying  Pembroke  to  our  Winchester, 
Signed,  ay,  and  written,  by  our  grandsire  king. 
[Reads]  "  And  for  we  know  that  envious  ills  assail 
The  nobly  born  when  not  by  wedlock  blest " 


LORDS    AND    LOVERS  131 

Win.  Nay — 'tis  not  that!    My  lord,  I  beg — it  is 
The  other  paper! 

Hen.  [Reading]  "Till  he  be  a  man 
And  cast  a  weighty  spear,  let  him  be  called 
De  Burgh,  and  known  as  Geoffrey's  son " 

Win.  Hear  me 

Hen.  Peter  des  Roches,  here's  matter  for  your  death, 
Which  at  your  humble  suit  we'll  moderate 
To  banishment. 

Win.  O,  blasted  be  this  hand 

Wynne.  Curse  not  the  unlucky  hand  that  bared  thy  sin, 
For  we  have  other  proof  of  Kent's  high  birth. 
Within  this  box  where  lady  Albemarle 
Treasured  the  tokens  from  her  kingly  love, 
I  found  a  paper  of  another  tenor, — 
A  letter  from  her  father,  old  De  Burgh, 
To  be  delivered  at  his  death  to  one 
Called  Hubert,  his  supposed  son,  wherein 
He  tells  him  of  his  birth  and  bids  him  claim 
Name  and  estate  as  his  great  father  willed. 
You  know  the  words,  my  fallen  Winchester, — 
"Rockingham,  Harle,  Beham  and  Fotheringay, 
-With  strongest  Bedford  as  his  ducal  seat." 
This  letter,  as  we  know,  was  kept  from  Kent, 
And  where  'twas  found  best  tells  the  why  thereof. 

Ade.  [Rising]  Who  will  deny  me  now?    Must  I  keep  still, 
Ye  lords  of  England?     Have  I  yet  your  leave 
T'  embrace  my  son? 

Kent.  [Crossing  to  her}  We'll  ask  no  leave,  my  mother. 
Do  dreams  take  flesh,  and  prayers  become  alive? 
For  I  have  dreamed  and  prayed  to  see  your  face, 
Though  but  in  vision,  thinking  you  in  Heaven; 
And  all  my  life  your  voice  like  far  off  singing 
Has  followed  me.     Sometimes  it  seemed  'twould  near 
If  I  might  wait  in  silence,  wooing  it, 


132  LORDS    AND    LOVERS 

But  life  that  waits  no  longing  pushed  me  on 
With  the  old  loss  new  in  my  heart. 

Ade.  My  son! 

My  only  son!     O,  twice  thou'rt  born  to  me! 

Kent.  And  I  must  double  yet  thy  joy,  for  see 
Thy  daughter  too.     [Presents  Margaret] 

Mar.  [To  Adelais]  If  thou  wilt  call  me  so. 

[Adelais  embraces  Margaret] 

Hen.  Those  castles,  Albemarle,  which  were  your  boast, 
Must  now  revert  to  their  right  lordly  owner, 
The  earl  of  Kent. 

Alb.  Take  them,  my  liege,  take  all, 

But  leave  me  this  good  sword  which  I  would  wear 
As  your  most  loyal  subject. 

Hen.  Nay,  my  lord, 

Your  service  past  but  illy  recommends  you. 
You  are  our  prisoner.     Guards  for  Albemarle ! 

Alb.  What  does  this  mean?     You  cast  your  crown  by 
this! 

Hen.  It  means,  proud  man,  you  are  a  traitor  proved. 
You  galloped  hard  last  night,  and  'twas  to  death. 
Those  troops  you  called  on  pretence  to  avenge 
The  death  of  Kent  will  be  by  Kent  commanded. 

Alb.  [To   Wynne]  'Tis   you    who've   brought  this   hell 
upon  me,  villain ! 

Hen.  By  your  good  patience,  he  is  not  a  villain ! 
I  know  not  all  his  merit,  but  enough 
To  make  him  my  chief  general ;    asking  first 
His  guard  against  this  plotting  Poitevin — 
This  unfrocked  bishop — should  he  e'er  attempt 
To  make  new  friends  and  land  upon  our  shores. 

Wynne.  Sire,  in  my  arms  he'll  find  a  barrier 
High  as  the  devil  scaled  to  enter  Heaven. 

Alb.  [To  Pembroke]  Be  lightning  in  my  cause,  if  you 
would  save  me! 


LORDS    AND    LOVERS  133 

Pern.  I  go  at  once  to  raise  what  power  I  can. 
Hen.  Out,  guards,  with  Albemarle,  and  keep  him  close 
Till  he  go  forth  to  death. 

[Exit  Albemarle  under  guard.     Pembroke  is  hurrying  out] 

Stay,  Pembroke.     You 

Have  been  too  close  his  brother.     'Tis  a  pity 
To  sever  you  in  death,  but  for  the  sake 
Of  your  great  father  dead  we're  lenient 
And  banish  you  the  kingdom. 

Pern.  Sire,  I  go. 

[Exit] 

Hen.  [To  officer]  Follow  him,  sir,  and  see  him  straight 
way  shipped. 

[Exit  officer] 

Now  Kent  may  ask  and  have.     What  gift  shall  speak 
My  great  affection?     What  thy  dearest  wish? 

Kent.  Let  him  not  ask  for  more,  who  has  the  love 
Of  Margaret,  his  mother,  and  his  king. 

[Curtain] 


THE    SHEPHERD 

A  PLAY  IN  THREE   ACTS 


CHARACTERS   OF   THE  PLAY 

ADRIAN  LAVROV,  the  Shepherd  of  Lmz 

PETER  VETROVA,  an  old  peasant 

CATHERINE,  Vetrova's  vnfe 

VASIL,  grandson  of  Peter  and  Catherine 

VERA,  sister  to  Vasil 

KORELENKO,  betrot}ied  to  Vera 

PRINCESS  SOPHIE  TRAVINSKI 

KALUSHKIN,  SIMEON,  GREGORI,  UGO,  peasants  of  lonz 

ANNA,  ULIANA,  neighbors  to  the  Vetrovas 

GREGORIEF,  an  ex-prisoner 

GALOVKINE,  a  doctor 

MANLIEF,  a  student 

COLONEL  ORLOFF,  of  the  Czar's  army 

IRTENIEFF,  ZARKOFF,  officers 

Soldiers,  revolutionists,  peasants,  &c. 

SCENE:  A  peasant  home  in  Russia 
TIME:   June,  nineteen  hundred  and  five 

NOTE. — The  song  episode  in  Act  II  is  adapted  from  "The  Green 
Book,"  by  Maurus  Jokai. 


ACT   I 

SCENE  1.  A  room  in  Peter  Vetrova9  s  cottage.  Door  opens 
centre  rear  into  a  little  yard  beyond  which  is  the  village 
street.  Centre  right,  door  into  Lavrov's  room.  Right 
second  entrance  leads  to  kitchen  and  garden.  Between 
the  two  doors  right  a  large  brick  store  whitewashed  and 
at  present  unused.  Shelf  above  stove.  A  loom  stands 
in  right  hand  corner  rear.  A  window  in  rear  watt 
between  loom  and  door.  Before  window  a  small  table  on 
which  are  student's  books  and  papers.  On  left  side  of 
door  a  small,  rude  cabinet  is  built  in  the  wall  about  six 
feet  from  floor.  A  wide  bench  stands  under  cabinet.  A 
small  high  window  in  left  wall.  Near  front,  very  high 
up  on  watt  left,  hangs  a  half  length  portrait  of  the 
Saviour. 

A  table  left  of  centre.  Bench  before  loom.  Two  or  three 
stools,  one  or  two  plain  chairs;  and  a  larger  chair,  of 
peasant  make,  near  table  centre. 

Glimpses  of  grass  and  a  fruit-tree  in  bloom  seen  through 
open  door  and  window  rear. 

Vetrova  discovered,  making  bark  shoes.  Catherine  sits 
near  him  in  the  large  chair,  sewing.  Vera  at  loom. 
Vasil  in  door  rear  with  violin.  He  ceases  playing  as 
curtain  rises. 

Vetrova.  That  brings  back  young  days,  mother. 
Catherine.  The    summer   is    getting    into    your    head, 
Petrovicb. 

137 


138  THE    SHEPHERD 

Vet.  My  heels  too.  If  the  boy  plays  any  more  I  shall 
forget  my  broken  bones  and  be  off  to  the  forest. 

Vasil.  I'll  keep  on  forever  if  I  can  play  your  crutch 
away,  grandfather. 

Cath.  [Hastily,  as  Vasil  raises  the  bow]  No!  Enough 
for  to-day. 

Vera.  [To  herself,  as  she  weaves]  Rags — rags — rags!  O> 
if  I  could  make  some  of  those  beautiful  things  I  saw  at  the 
bazaar!  [Softly]  Or  just  a  sweet  white  coverlet  for  me 
and  Sasha.  [Turns  from  the  loom  to  the  others] 

Vasil.  [Who  has  crossed  to  Catherine]  If  I  can  please 
but  one  it  shall  be  you,  little  grandmother. 

Vera.  [Running  to  Vetrova,  and  sitting  on  his  knee] 
And  if  I  could  please  but  one  it  should  be  you,  little  grand 
father! 

Cath.  [Removing  Vasil' 's  arm  from  her  shoulder]  There, 
go  to  your  book,  lad.  The  Shepherd  will  be  coming 
back. 

Vasil.  [Smiling]  I  am  ready  for  him.  [Crosses  to  small 
table  rear,  sits  by  it,  and  begins  studying.  Vera  follows  him, 
and  they  look  over  the  book  together,  Vasil  explaining,  Vera 
teasing] 

Vet.  [Taking  up  his  work]  I  wish  you  loved  the  music, 
Catherine.  It  makes  things  different  somehow  .  .  .  while 
it  lasts. 

Cath.  'Tis  your  spirit,  Petrovich.  You  were  never  like 
the  rest  of  us.  The  others  called  you  queer,  but  I  knew  it 
was  just  spirit. 

Vet.  Eh — yes.  Don't  you  remember  the  gypsy  ring  in 
the  forest  forty-five  years 

Cath.  How  you  talk,  Petrusha!  'Tis  evil  times  [looks 
guardedly  at  the  young  people]  and  we  are  old. 

Vet.  Yes  .  .  .  old.  We  may  gather  acorns  in  the 
woods,  mother,  but  we  shall  never  find  any  more  flowers. 
Well  enough.  The  trees  would  grow  wrinkled  with 


THE    SHEPHERD  139 

laughter  to  see  an  old  man  dancing  beneath  them.  Eh 
—yes,  let  him  stoop,  and  pick  up  brush. 

Cath.  [Comfortingly]  We  have  the  children,  Petrusha. 

Vet.  [Sullenly]  We  had  their  father  and  mother,  too. 

Cath.  We've  fared  better  than  others.  We've  always 
had  our  home. 

Vet.  Because  you  served  in  the  barm's  house  and  the 
mistress  liked  you.  Just  chance!  And  then  the  barm 
died  and  Travinski  got  hold  of  everything. 

Cath.  But  the  Shepherd  came. 

Vet.  Another  chance!  Life  oughtn't  to  owe  itself  to 
that.  It  isn't  living.  Those  two  awful  years  before  the 
Shepherd  came — when  Andrei  died — they  were  real.  A 
part  of  what  is.  We  were  like  our  neighbors  then.  Yes. 
[Stops  talking  as  Vera  crosses  to  her  grandmother] 

Vera.  [Leaning  affectionately  against  Catherine]  How 
you  must  love  Vasil,  grandmamma,  to  make  him  an  em 
broidered  blouse  out  of  a  piece  of  your  best  blanket ! 

Cath.  He  is  leaving  us,  my  child. 

Vera.  You  said  I  should  have  this  if  I  married  Alex 
ander. 

Cath.  Perhaps  these  bad  times  will  be  over  then,  and 
we  may  be  able  to  get  something  new. 

Vera.  O,  these  bad  times!  They  will  never  be  over. 
I've  been  waiting  for  that  ever  since  I  was  born. 

Cath.  And  we  waited  before  you,  child. 

Vera.  {Repentant}  I  didn't  mean  it,  grandmamma! 
Can't  I  help  you  make  the  blouse?  But  it  may  not  be  the 
fashion  in  Berlin.  I  will  ask  Sasha  what  the  students 
wear.  [Takes  up  a  piece  of  the  stuff]  And  how  can  you 
sew  on  winter  things  in  summer  time?  Winter  is  so  far 
away, — a  thousand  years  away.  Yasil  will  never  live  till 
winter  time. 

Cath.  [Shocked']  Vera! 

Vera.  Well,  you  know  he  can't  live  a  thousand  years. 


140  THE    SHEPHERD 

Cath.  Why  does  winter  seem  so  far  off,  dear? 

Vera.  O,  I  don't  know.  [A  slight  pause]  Alexander  says 
we  can  not  be  married  before  winter. 

Cath.  [Smiling  and  laying  down  her  work]  Do  you  love 
him  so  much?  [Vera  buries  her  face  in  her  grandmother's 
lap]  And  he  is  right,  dear.  You  should  wait  a  long  time. 
What  can  a  young  man  do  now?  Everything  is  uncertain. 
Nothing  is  sure  but  hunger  and  children. 

Vera.  [Looking  up]  Isn't  it  the  strangest  thing  in  the 
world? 

Cath.  What,  dear? 

Vera.  That  he  should  love  me. 

Cath.  And  that  you  should  love  him? 

Vera.  O,  no!     I  couldn't  help  loving  him! 

Cath.  [Shaking  her  head  and  taking  up  her  work]  My 
thread,  child.  I  left  it  in  the  kitchen. 

[Exit  Vera,  second  entrance,  right] 

Vet.  [Looking  after  her]  She  is  like  her  mother,  Cath 
erine. 

Cath.  Yes  .  .  .  dear  Polya.  I  thought  she  was  going 
to  have  a  wilful  heart,  but  she  is  just  a  woman. 

Vet.  [Moodily]  I  wish  they  were  both  with  their  parents 
in  the  only  safe  place  in  Russia,  the  grave. 

Cath.  [Looking  at  Vasil]  Hush !  He  will  be  safe  enough 
soon.  The  Shepherd  is  good  to  send  him  away,  and  he  so 
poor  himself.  Buy  him  from  the  army,  and  all. 

Vet.  Send  an  innocent  lad  out  of  his  own  country  to  be 
safe. 

Cath.  He  is  to  be  a  musician  as  well  as  a  scholar.  Berlin 
is  the  place.  The  Shepherd  knows.  He  could  not  keep 
out  of  trouble  at  our  universities.  You  know  what  you 
were  in  your  youth,  Petrovich. 

Vet.  I  wanted  to  be  a  scholar  too.  But  they  beat  me 
back. 

Cath.  You  have  been  a  good  peasant.     You  might  have 


THE    SHEPHERD  141 

been  a  poor  scholar.  And  we  have  had  the  teachers. 
Don't  you  remember  the  first  night -class  in  our  cottage, 
and  the  noble's  daughter  who  wore  peasant  clothes  and 
taught  grown  men  to  read?  That  was  thirty  years  ago. 

Vet.  And  she  went  to  Kara  for  it  ...  to  the  mines 
...  for  teaching  men  to  read. 

Cath.  But  others  came. 

Vet.  And  went  ...  as  she  did. 

Cath.  God  bless  them!  We  can  all  read  our  Bibles 
now.  And  the  lad  is  going  to  a  university. 

Vet.  'Tis  far,  Berlin.  I  am  old.  The  Shepherd  is 
needed  everywhere.  He  may  go  any  time.  Vasil  ought 
to  stay  with  his  sister. 

Cath.  She  has  Alexander. 

Vet.  How  long  will  he  keep  out  of  prison  with  that  big 
heart  and  hot  head? 

Cath.  God  will  protect  her. 

Vet.  As  he  did  her  mother !     Yes. 

Cath.  You  are  hardening  your  heart,  Petrovich.  [Turns 
toward  icon,  crossing  herself] 

Vera.  [Re-entering]  Grandmamma!     [Stands  in  door] 

Cath.  The  thread,  child. 

Vera.  O,  I  forgot.     Uliana  is  in  the  kitchen. 

Cath.  [Rising  quickly]  Uliana! 

Vera.  It's  bad  news,  I'm  afraid.  She  keeps  wiping  her 
eyes  pretending  she  isn't. 

Cath.  Did  she  tell  you  anything? 

Vera.  No,  grandmamma.     I  couldn't  make  her. 

[CatJierine  hurries  across  to  kitchen  entrance.  Vetrova 
takes  up  his  crutch  and  hobbles  after  her] 

Cath.  [Sternly]  Stay  with  the  children,  Petrovich.  [Exit, 
closing  door  behind  her] 

Vera.  [Opening  door  for  Vetrova]  Go  on,  grandfather. 
[Laughs  and  kisses  him]  Are  you  afraid?  I  promise  you 
Vasil  and  I  will  stay  here.  She  wants  you,  I  know. 


142  THE    SHEPHERD 

Vet.  [Lifting  her  chin]  A  good  child,  but  too  pretty,  too 
pretty.  [Exi£\ 

Vera.  [Turns  and  looks  at  Vasil,  who  is  absorbed  in  his 
book.  Crosses  to  him]  Vasil? 

Vasil.  [Looking  up  reluctantly]  Ten  pages  beyond 
Adrian's  mark.  He  will  be  pleased. 

Vera.  Is  there  anything  you  like  better  than  to  please 
Adrian? 

Vasil.  [Listening]  Who  is  in  the  kitchen? 

Vera.  Uliana. 

Vasil.  And  you  don't  want  to  hear  the  gossip? 

Vera.  No.  I  want  to  stay  with  you.  [Guilefully]  You 
are  going  away,  you  know. 

Vasil.  [Rising]  There  may  be  news  from 

Vera.  Don't  go!     I  promised. 

Vasil.  Then  it  is  from  Petoff. 

Vera.  Adrian  doesn't  want  you  to  hear  about  such 
things. 

Vasil.  [Sitting  down]  Haven't  I  ears  and  eyes?  They 
think  I  don't  know  .  .  .  but  see  here.  [Takes  up  a  tablet] 
You  may  read  it,  Vera.  [She  glances  over  tablet]  I  wrote 
it  this  morning. 

Vera.  It  is  gay  and  sad  too.  But  it  is  not  like  a  June 
song.  There  are  no  birds  and  flowers  in  it. 

Vasil.  Don't  you  know  who  the  " Summer  Maid"  is, 
Vera? 

Vera.  Summer  herself,  isn't  she? 

Vasil.  No,  stupid.     She  is  Freedom — Liberty. 

Vera.  O,  Vasil !    And  the  old,  dead  Winter  is 

Vasil.  Yes,  the  Czar. 

Vera.  O,  I'm  afraid!    Let  me  burn  it,  Vasil. 

Vasil.  [Taking  it  from  her]  No. 

Vera.  Suppose  somebody  should  find  it — a  spy? 

Vasil.  He  wouldn't  understand  it.  You  didn't  your 
self. 


THE    SHEPHERD  143 

Vera.  But  I'm  a  stupid. 

Vasil.  [Catching  her  in  his  arms]  Are  you,  little  sister? 

Vera.  Let  me  have  it,  Vasil. 

Vasil.  [Tears  sheet  from  tablet,  folds  it  and  puts  it  into 
his  pocket]  No.  It's  as  safe  as  any  piece  of  paper. 

Vera.  Adrian  won't  like  it.  He  says  your  mind  must 
be  free  from — all  that,  Free  for  what,  Vasil?  We  want 
to  be  free  only  to  do  things. 

Vasil.  [Laying  his  hand  on  his  book}  For  this, — and 
this  [softly  touching  his  violin], — and  this.  [Lifting  his 
pen] 

Vera.  O,  what  a  slave!  You  will  have  three  masters. 
I  want  to  be  free  too,  but  not  for  such  things.  I  want  to 
make  Sasha  happy. 

Vasil.  A  woman's  freedom.  Free  to  wear  fetters.  Have 
you  seen  him  to-day? 

Vera.  No,  but 

Vasil.  What?     And  the  sun  so  high? 

Vera.  I  am  waiting  for  him  now.  I  shall  tease  him 
about  the  great  man  who  fell  in  1  e  with  me  at  the  bazaar. 

Vasil.  Who  was  it  wanted  to  make  Sasha  happy? 

Vera.  He  ought  to  be  glad  that  such  a  splendid  officer 
even  looked  at  me ! 

Vasil.  And  were  you  glad,  Vera? 

Vera.  No.     I  ran  away. 

Vasil.  WTiat  did  Madam  Korego  say  to  that? 

Vera.  [As  Korelenko  enters  unseen  by  her]  She  said  she 
would  never  take  me  again,  and  I  told  her  I  didn't  care, 
I  was  going  to  marry  Sasha,  who  was  finer  than  any  officer 
in  the  world. 

Vasil.  Good-morning,  Alexander  Korelenko. 

Vera.  [Whirls  about  and  sees  Alexander]  Now  I  can't 
tease  him!  [Vasil  returns  to  his  book] 

Korelenko.  About  what,  little  bird? 

Vera.  O,  I  found  a  new  lover  at  the  bazaar '. 


144  THE    SHEPHERD 

Kore.  [Smiling]  I  told  Madam  Korego  it  would  never 
do  to  take  you. 

Vera.  A  fine  gentleman,  all  covered  with  gold  lace. 

Kore.  And  he  gave  you  a  piece  to  weep  over  when  you 
are  only  poor  little  madam  Korelenko? 

Vera.  A  very  great  man — General  Petrizoff ! 

Kore.  [Starting  furiously]  Has  that — has  he  looked  at 
you?  [Walks  from  her] 

Vera.  [Imploring]  Sasha! 

Kore.  [Turning  back  to  her]  My  little  one!  I'm  a  jealous 
fool!  He  will  not  hunt  out  you,  poor  little  you.  [Holds 
her  to  him,  and  shakes  a  clenched  fist  behind  her  back. 
Adrian  enters  by  street  door  and  goes  up  to  Korelenko] 

Adrian.  You  would  hold  love  in  your  heart  and  hate 
in  your  hand,  Alexander? 

Vera.  [Freeing  herself]  O,  Adrian!  [Takes  his  hat  and 
stick]  You  are  tired.  I  will  bring  you  some  tea. 

Adr.  No,  little  sister.  Lay  the  table  in  the  garden.  It 
makes  one  hungry  to  walk  from  Petoff. 

Vera.  So  far!  Sit  down,  you  bad  little  brother! 
[Leads  him  to  the  large  chair,  and  goes  toward  kitchen]  In 
three  minutes !  [Listens  at  door  and  says  softly]  Uliana  is 
gone.  [Exit] 

Kore.  What  of  Petoff? 

Adr.  [Looks  about  and  sees  Vasil  at  his  book]  Vasil,  lad, 
a  cup  of  water  from  the  garden  well.  The  roads  are  un 
usually  dusty  for  the  first  of  June. 

[Exit  Vasil,  kitchen  way] 

Kore.  You  are  wrong,  Adrian.  It  is  time  for  him  to 
know  man's  work.  This  is  not  a  day  for  dreamers. 

Adr.  For  dreamers,  no, — but  a  dreamer,  yes.  Can  we 
not  spare  one  to  step  out  of  the  days  to  a  place  in  the  ages  ? 
We  shall  die,  indeed,  if  there  is  none  to  sing  us. 

Kore.  He  must  know  his  theme  then. 

Adr.  He  shall  know  it, — when  he  knows  art  so  well  that 


THE    SHEPHERD  145 

life  can  not  tempt  him  to  die.     I  will  save  his  youth,  his 
enthusiasm,  and  then  ...  he  may  please  himself. 

Kore.  No  use.  Our  prisons  are  full  of  buried  enthu 
siasms.  He  must  take  his  fate  with  the  rest  of  us.  This 
is  the  wrorld,  not  a  fairy's  cockle-shell.  You  can't  save 
him. 

Adr.  I  must.  In  him  Heaven  has  given  me  back  my 
own  youth.  I  shall  not  surrender  it  a  second  time. 

Kore.  He  belongs  to  himself,  and  he  will  soon  find  out 
that  he  is  a  man  and  a  Russian.  But  Petoff?  What  did 
you  find  there? 

Adr.  Despair,  desolation,  death.  That  is  all  they  have 
gained  by  revolt. 

Kore.  No!     They  have  gained  the  name  of  men.     To 
have  submitted  to  be  stripped  and  turned  bleeding  under 
the  skies  would  have  proved  them  lower  than  beasts. 
[Enter  Vetrova,  right,  with  cup  0}  water] 

Vet.  I  begged  the  cup  of  Vasil.  Let  me  die  when  I  can 
not  serve  Adrian  Lavrov. 

Adr.  [Advancing  to  him  and  taking  the  cup]  Thank  you, 
Petrovich.  I  would  rather  serve  you.  [Drinks] 

Vet.  Are  we  safe,  Adrian  Lavrov?     Is  Lonz  at  peace? 

Adr.  Yes,  Petrovich.  I  have  Prince  Travinski's  word 
that  we  shall  not  be  molested  so  long  as  we  are  patient 
under  the  law. 

Kore.  The  law?  Under  robbery  and  the  rod !  Patience 
under  the  foot  of  your  master ! 

Adr.  The  slave  can  always  rise  above  the  master  by  for 
giving  him.  Go  among  our  neighbors,  Petrovich,  and  let 
them  know  they  need  fear  nothing  while  they  themselves 
keep  the  peace. 

Vet.  Heaven,  and  the  Shepherd  of  Lonz,  be  praised! 
[Places  cup  on  table  and  goes  out  street  door] 

Kore.  You  saw  Travinski?  How  did  you  manage  it? 
He  has  steadily  refused  to  see  any  one  from  the  people. 


146  THE    SHEPHERD 

Adr.  And  he  refused  to  see  me  at  first,  but  as  I  was 
coming  away  I  met  a  lady  who  interceded  for  me. 

Kore.  His  daughter?     The  princess  Sophie? 

Adr.  No.  Sophie  Remon.  One  of  the  Red  Cross 
workers. 

Kore.  Remon?     I  don't  know  her. 

Adr.  Her  district  is  farther  north,  but  she  comes  here 
occasionally. 

Kore.  She  must  have  great  influence. 

Adr.  Yes.     I  was  surprised  to  meet  her  in  the  palace. 

Kore.  Naturally.  In  the  enemy's  camp.  A  spy  on  one 
side  or  the  other. 

Adr.  [Sternly]  I,  too,  was  in  the  palace,  Korelenko. 

Kore.  [Looking  at  him  closely,  after  a  surprised  start] 
All  right.  I  suppose  she  explained  her  presence  there. 

Adr.  I  asked  nothing.  She  is  probably  a  friend  of  the 
princess. 

Kore.  I  hope  not.  She  can't  be  her  friend  and  yours 
too. 

Adr.  Why  not? 

Kore.  I  learned  to-day  that  the  princess  Sophie  is  one 
of  Petrizoff's  spies.  She  has  a  wager  with  him,  a  luck- 
piece  against  a  tiara,  that  she  will  secure  evidence  to  con 
vict  you. 

Adr.  Petrizoff  need  not  be  at  so  much  trouble.  He  can 
imprison  me  without  evidence  when  he  pleases. 

Kore.  Not  you.  That  may  do  for  other  poor  devils, 
but  you  have  friends  all  over  Russia.  It  would  make  too 
much  of  a  stir  even  for  Petrizoff.  He  would  have  to  show 

the  papers 

[Re-enter  Vera,  right] 

Vera.  Have  you  forgotten  you  were  hungry? 

Adr.  Come,  Sasha. 

[They  go  out,  right,  with  Vera,  as  Vetrova  and  princess 
Sophie  Travinski  appear  at  street  door.  She  wears  a 


THE    SHEPHERD  147 

long  gray  ulster  marked  with   a  red  cross,   and  a  plain, 
drooping  hat  with  veil] 

Sophie.  Thank  you,  sir.  I  might  have  missed  the 
house. 

Vet.  [As  they  enter]  Bless  you,  no!  There's  not  a  child 
in  the  village  out  of  its  cradle  that  couldn't  tell  you  where 
the  Shepherd  lives. 

Soph.  [Looking  about  tJie  room}  And  he  lives  here? 

Vet.  As  I've  told  you,  lady, — with  me,  old  Vetrova. 
Ten  years  since  he  came  in  at  that  door  to  be  a  son  to  me 
and  Catherine. 

Soph.  He  has  lived  here  ten  years? 

Vet.  Not  all  of  that,  for  he  is  often  called  away.  But 
he  alwrays  comes  back.  'Tis  never  too  far  to  come  back. 
[Draws  up  the  large  chair]  Will  you  sit  here,  m,adam? 

Soph.  You  have  a  granddaughter?     [Sitting] 

Vet.  Little  Vera, — and  a  grandson,  too.  Twins,  though 
not  a  bit  alike,  as  you  may  see  for  yourself  before  you  go. 
'Twas  Vasil,  my  grandson,  who  brought  the  Shepherd  to 
us.  He  was  just  seven  years  old  then,  and  a  fine  lad.  We 
can  say  that  about  our  grandchildren,  ma'am.  The  Shep 
herd  loved  him  at  first  sight,  and  a  father  he's  been  to  him 
ever  since.  His  OWTI  father,  my  Andrei,  died  under  the 
rod  one  bad  year  when  taxes  couldn't  be  paid,  and  his  wife 
— the  little  mother — died  too  when  they  brought  him  in. 
She  dropped  like  that.  But  we  don't  tell  the  children. 
They'll  not  have  to  dig  up  graves  for  trouble.  [Going  right] 
I'll  let  the  Shepherd  know  you  are  here. 

Soph.  [In  sudden  confusion]  Wait — I  mean — yes — tell 
him  I  am  here. 

Vet.  'Tis  luck  you  have  found  him  at  home,  for  these 
bitter  days  keep  him  at  work.  Shall  I  tell  him  your  name, 
lady? 

Soph.  Sophie  Remon. 

[Exit  Vetrova] 


148  THE    SHEPHERD 

Soph.  His  home!  What  a  place!  But  I  could  kneel 
here.  [Rises  and  walks  nervously,  but  becomes  suddenly 
composed  at  sound  of  a  step.  Enter  Adrian,  right.  He 
stands  reservedly  at  some  distance  from  her] 

Adr.  May  I  help  you  this  time?  But  I  hope  it  is  not 
trouble  of  your  own  that  brings  you. 

Soph.  No. 

Adr.  Then  I  am  glad  to  see  you  again.  We  had  so 
little  time  this  morning,  and  my  surprise  was  so  great  when 
I  recognized  you 

Soph.  You  knew  me? 

Adr.  I  should  know  you  anywhere. 

Soph.  But  you  will  keep  my  secret?  It  is  important. 
No  one  must  suspect  that  I  am  Sophie  Travinski. 

Adr.  [Starts]  Ah!  ...  I  did  not  know 

Soph.  You  said  you  recognized  me! 

Adr.  As  Sophie  Remon.  We  had  not  met  for  some 
time. 

Soph.  O 

Adr.  But  have  no  fear,  your  highness 

Soph.  [Approaching  and  offering  her  hand]  Not  to 
you.  To  you  I  am  still  the  same. 

Adr.  [Not  seeing  her  hand]  Let  me  thank  you  again  for 
being  my  kind  divinity  this  morning. 

Soph.  I  did  nothing. 

Adr.  Everything.  The  people  are  crazed  out  of  their 
dulness.  They  fear  new,  unknown  horrors.  I  did  not 
know  what  might  happen;  but  the  assurance  of  Prince 
Travinski  will  renew  their  endurance.  That  was  what  I 
needed — his  word. 

Soph.  [Uneasily]  You  can  not  need  it.  You  who  have 
such  power  over  the  people.  'Tis  not  because  Travinski 
said  it  but  because  you  repeat  it  that  they  believe.  You 
are  a  great  man,  Adrian  Lavrov. 


THE    SHEPHERD  149 

Adr.  [Smiling]  Not  great  enough  to  be  flattered  as  great. 

Soph.  O,  I  have  seen — [checks  herself,  changing  her 
words]  men  with  men,  and  I  know  a  king  from  a  subject. 

Adr.  Then  you  are  wiser  than  I.  But  what  is  your 
wish,  your  highness?  You  say  you  have  not  come  for 
yourself. 

Soph.  No.     For  Vera  Vetrova.     She  is  in  danger. 

Adr.  Vera?     How  can  such  a  child  be  in  danger? 

Soph.  You  ask  that  in  Russia? 

Adr.  She  lives  at  home — she  goes  nowhere. 

Soph.  Where  was  she  yesterday? 

Adr.  I  was  away  all  day. 

Soph.  And  Vera  was  in  Yaltowa,  at  the  bazaar  to 
raise  funds  for  the  wounded. 

Adr.  I  remember  now.  Madam  Korego  asked  per 
mission  to  take  her. 

Soph.  She  is  not  a  wise  woman. 

Adr.  What  has  happened? 

Soph.  PetrizofF  saw  her.     You  know  the  man  he  is. 

Adr.  Yes— O— 

Soph.  She  escaped  him,  but  madam  was  pleased  to 
give  all  information. 

Adr.  What  can  I  do?     Where  will  she  be  safe? 

Soph.  Not  in  the  Czar's  dominions.     Petrizoff 

Adr.  I  know!  Something  must  be  done  at  once.  I 
must  think! 

Soph.  I  have  already  thought.     Will  you  trust  me? 

Adr.  [Gazing  at  lier]  Absolutely. 

Soph.  O,  thank  you! 

Adr.  You  have  a  plan? 

Soph.  A  friend  of  mine  leaves  for  Odessa  to-morrow 
to  embark  for  America.  Vera  can  travel  with  her,  taking 
her  maid's  passport.  She  will  be  safe  until  to-morrow. 
The  officers'  ball,  and  some  other  matters,  will  keep  Pet- 


150  THE    SHEPHERD 

rizoff  occupied.     I  will  arrange  everything  and  send  for 
her  in  the  morning. 

Adr.  Poor  little  girl!  It  will  be  hard  for  her,  and  her 
grandparents  are  very  feeble.  Dear  old  Petrovich!  It 
will  kill  him  to  lose  his  darling. 

Soph.  [With  concealed  anxiety]  You — you  are  very 
fond  of  her? 

Adr.  Yes. 

Soph.  [Bravely]  Perhaps  you  love  her. 

Adr.  I  do. 

Soph.  O!     Then 

Adr.  But  it  will  be  hardest  for  Korelenko.  She  is  be 
trothed  to  him. 

Soph.  Betrothed!     Ah,  to 

Adr.  Alexander  Korelenko.  He  is  headstrong,  and 
does  not  always  understand.  I'm  afraid  he  will  want  to 
brave  things  out  here. 

Soph.  O,  he  can't!  He  must  understand  that  he 
can't.  That  would  mean  the  destruction  of  both.  Could 
he  not  go  with  her? 

Adr.  Perhaps. 

Soph.  I  can  arrange  that  too,  if  he  wishes.     My  friend 
was  to  be  accompanied  by  a  brother.     He  can  go  later. 
Tell  Korelenko,  and  let  me  know  before  to-morrow. 
[Re-enter  Vetrova,  right] 

Vet.  [Respectfully]  Will  the  lady  take  a  cup  of  tea  in  the 
garden  with  Catherine  and  my  little  granddaughter? 

Soph.  Gladly.  [To  Adrian]  She  must  know  me. 
[Vetrova  holds  the  door  open  for  her] 

[V era's  voice  without]  O,  you  have  come!  This  way  to 
the  garden. 

[Vetrova  closes  the  door  and  crosses  to  Adrian,  who  stands 
motionless,  apparently  not  seeing  Vetrova] 

Vet.  A  sweet  lady. 

Adr.  [To  himself]  The  princess! 


THE    SHEPHERD  151 

Vet.  Eh,  yes,  she  steps  like  one.  But  not  so  pretty  as 
our  Vera. 

Adr.  [Catching  tJie  last  ward]  Vera!  Ah, — Petrovich, 
I've  been  thinking  that  the  children  ought  not  to  be  parted. 

Vet.  You  are  right,  Adrian  Lavrov. 

Adr.  And  you  would  be  willing  to  let  Vera  go  with 
Vasil  to  Berlin? 

Vet.  [Astounded]  Go  with  him?  My  Vera?  My  little 
girl?  Go  away?  Leave  her  old  grandfather?  I  don't 
understand  you,  Adrian  Lavrov.  Let  the  boy  stay  with 
his  sister. 

Adr.  [Putting  his  hand .  on  Vetrova  s  shoulder]  That 
must  not  be,  Petrovich.  He  ought  to  go.  He  must  go. 
He  will  be  a  great  musician.  God  means  it.  There  is  no 
mistake  about  him.  [Leaves  Vetrova  and  crosses  to  table 
where  Vasil  has  been  studying.  Turns  over  the  papers 
meditatively,  forgetting  Vetrova]  He  will  never  write.  He 
feels  too  much  to  articulate.  But  music — through  that  his 
divinity  can  flow.  [Takes  up  the  book]  Bless  the  lad! 
He  learns  by  leaps.  [Drops  book]  And  I  must  send  him 
from  me — my  youth — my  dreams. 

Vet.  But  not  Vera!     Not  her! 

Adr.  If  she  stays  she  will  marry,  Petrovich.  And  she 
must  leave  you  then. 

Vet.  No,  no !  Alexander  has  promised  me  that  she  may 
live  with  me  till  I  die.  [Pleadingly]  Only  till  I  die,  Adrian 
Lavrov. 

Adr.  [Hiding  his  emotion]  Well,   Petrovich,   sufficient 
unto  the  day.     Let  us  be  happy  till  to-morrow. 
[Re-enter  Korelenko,  right] 

Kore.  Vera  is  calling  you,  Petrovich.  [Vetrova  hobbles 
off,  right]  Who  is  this  woman,  Adrian? 

Adr.  You  heard  the  name. 

Kore.  I  heard  what  she  calls  herself,  but  who  is  she? 

Adr.  I  shall  not  tell  you. 


152  THE    SHEPHERD 

Kore.  You  needn't.     I  know  enough. 

Adr.  What  do  you  know? 

Kore.  What  my  eyes  tell  me.  She  is  helping  Vera  with 
the  dishes — and  such  hands!  Remember  I  have  warned 
you  against  the  princess  Sophie. 

Adr.  Forget  that  slander,  Korelenko. 

Kore.  Slander!  I  believe  that  this  woman  is  the  friend 
and  accomplice  of  the  princess. 

Adr.  [Smiling]  You  do? 

Kore.  [Looking  at  his  watch]  I  must  hurry  to  Yaltowa. 
Do  me  this  favor,  Adrian.  Don't  leave  Vera  alone  with 
this — Sophie  Remon.  At  the  best  she  is  not  what  she  pre 
tends  to  be,  and  for  some  reason  she  is  trying  to  win  Vera's 
friendship. 

Adr.  Alexander,  I  must  speak  to  you  about  Vera. 

Kore.  [Going]  Not  a  second  to  spare.  I  am  already 
late,  and  Gregorief 

Adr.  Gregorief!  He  will  ruin  you,  Sasha.  You  are  half 
a  terrorist  now.  He  will  complete  the  work. 

Kore.  He  is  getting  at  the  bottom  of  a  big  reactionary 
plot.  I  can't  stay  to  explain,  and  we  don't  know  enough 
yet 

Adr.  Keep  away  from  him! 

Kore.  Can't  now.  We  must  root  this  out.  It  is  a  ter 
rible  thing.  I  shall  be  back  by  midnight.  [Exit] 

Adr.  And  Vera  must  go  to-morrow. 

[Re-enter  Vetrova,  right] 

Adr.  What  is  wrong,  Petrovich? 

Vet.  The  lady  is  a  good  lady.  Yes.  But  why  does  she 
want  to  take  Vera  from  the  old  man?  She  has  stolen  the 
child's  heart.  And  to-morrow  she  is  going  to  send  a  car 
riage 

[Distant  cries  are  heard  from  without] 

Adr.  What  is  that?  It  sounds  like — Petoff  yesterday. 
[Uliana  hurries  in,  street  door]  What  is  it,  Uliana? 


THE    SHEPHERD  153 

Uliana  [Crossing  herself  toward  icon  as  she  enters]  O, 
sir,  the  soldiers  have  come! 

Adr.  The  soldiers?  Well,  they  are  only  passing  through 
the  village. 

Uli.  They  have  stopped,  sir!  And  they  are  Cos 
sacks. 

Adr.  Do  not  be  alarmed.  They —  [Enter  two  peasants] 
Simeon?  Gregori? 

Simeon.  What  do  they  want — the  soldiers? 

Adr.  Nothing. 

Gregori.  We  are  ordered  to  line  up  in  the  street.  They 
are  dragging  some  of  the  men  out.  Does  that  mean 
nothing,  Shepherd  of  Lonz? 

Adr.  I  will  find  out  what  it  means.  Stay  here.  You 
have  done  no  wrong.  You  will  not  be  harmed.  [Enter 
another  peasant]  Ugo? 

Ugo.  Is  it  flogging,  sir? 

Adr,  No!  It  can't  be!  [Goes  toward  door.  Cries  of 
"  The  Shepherd,  The  Shepherd,"  heard  without} 

Adr.  [In  door]  I  am  here. 

A  voice  without.  We  have  followed  your  counsel,  Shep 
herd  of  Lonz.  We  have  kept  the  peace.  We  have  borne 
the  taxes.  We  have  given  our  sons  to  the  war.  Why  are 
the  soldiers  here? 

Adr.  I  do  not  know.  But  I  have  the  word  of  Prince 
Travinski,  your  little  father,  that  no  outrage  will  be  com 
mitted.  Come  in,  friends. 

[A  dozen  or  more  peasants  enter.  Catherine,  Sophie,  Vera 
and  Vasil  come  on,  right] 

A  peasant.  [Doggedly]  I  gave  the  Czar  my  two  sons. 
He  gives  me  the  rod. 

Another.  My  children  have  no  bread.  But  the  taxes 
are  paid. 

Adr.  You  have  done  your  best,  and  I  can  not  believe 
that  vou  will  be  harmed. 


154  THE    SHEPHERD 

A  peasant.  It  makes  no  difference  how  we  do.  There 
were  good  men  at  Petoff. 

[A  man  staggers  in] 

Adr.  Kalushkin! 

Uli.  [Rushing  to  him]  My  Petrov!  Out  of  your  bed! 
Why  did  you  come? 

Kalushkin.  We  are  to  be  lined  up  in  the  street  and  every 
tenth  man  flogged. 

[Silence.     Then  a  woman  hurries  in] 

Adr.  Anna! 

Anna.  [Kneeling  before  Adrian]  My  lad — they  have 
taken  him!  His  father  died  last  night.  You  know  how 
he  died.  He  was  starved.  He  left  the  bread  for  me  and 
the  lad.  And  now  they  have  taken  him — my  boy — 
[sobbing] 

[Adrian  lifts  her  up  in  silence] 

A  peasant.  [Starting  up  from  bench  where  he  has  sat  as 
if  stunned]  Flogging!  [Relapses  into  silence] 

Kalush.  We  are  weak,  we  are  starved,  we  can  not  bear 
the  blows. 

Adr.  Whatever  happens  we  will  not  forget  that  the  blow 
we  receive  falls  on  our  bodies  only;  the  blow  we  give  falls 
back  upon  our  souls.  We  will  be  patient  even  unto  death; 
we  will  not  league  with  our  enemy  against  our  immortal 
selves. 

[Groans,  and  mutters  of  remonstrance] 

What  have  our  neighbors  at  Petoff  gained  by  striking 
back?  Put  out  your  hands  and  feel  the  ashes  of  their 
homes.  And  they  have  lost  not  only  their  homes,  their 
children,  and  themselves,  but  an  eternal  triumph,  a  tri 
umph  for  the  spirit  of  peace  in  the  world. 

A  voice  at  door.  Here  they  come! 

[Enter  Orloff,  with  soldiers.  Others  are  seen  crowding 
into  the  yard] 

Orloff.  We  want  the  men  of  this  house. 


THE    SHEPHERD  155 

Adr.  I  am  one. 

Orl.  [Looking  him  over]  Not  you.  We  know  you.  We 
want  the  peasants.  There  are  two  here.  [Glancing  at 
paper  in  his  hand]  Peter  Vetrova,  Vasil  Vetrova. 

Adr.  For  what  are  they  wanted?  This  is  a  peaceful 
village. 

Orl.  And  we  intend  to  see  that  it  remains  so. 

Adr.  I  can  assure  you  of  that.  My  word  is  worth  some 
thing. 

Orl.  Not  in  the  army,  friend. 

Adr.  The  men  of  Lonz  are  men  of  peace. 

Orl.  A  warning  not  to  get  bad  habits  from  their  neigh 
bors  won't  hurt  them.  Revolt  is  catching,  and  Petoff  has 
given  us  a  deal  of  trouble. 

Adr.  Does  this  mean  flogging? 

Orl.  Only  every  tenth  man.  The  same  as  for  taxes. 
They  get  off  light,  but  we've  heard  no  thanks  yet. 

Adr.  Prince  Travinski  gave  me  his  word  this  morn 
ing— — 

Orl.  Travinski!  It  was  this  morning  that  he  sent  to 
Petrizoff  asking  him  to  warm  up  Lonz  a  little  and  be  quick 
about  it. 

Adr.  This  morning? 

Orl.  You  see,  my  friend,  your  word  won't  pass  in  the 
army.  And  you  can't  blame  Travinski  for  wanting  to 
take  things  in  time  here  after  all  his  bother  about  Petoff. 
[Loudly]  Peter  Vetrova! 

Adr.  [Pushing  Vetrova  forward]  One  blow  would  kill 
this  old  man.  Have  you  a  warrant  for  murder? 

Orl.  Let  him  go.    Death  will  take  care  of  him.    [Laughs] 

[Adrian  draws  Vetrova  back] 

Orl.  Vasil  Vetrova! 
[Vasil  steps  out,  his  face  white,  his  eyes  blazing] 

A  voice.  Adrian  Lavrov,  do  you  still  say  submit? 

Adr.  [Blanching]  Submit. 


156  THE    SHEPHERD 

Orl.  [To  Vasil]  Come! 

Adr.  [Stepping  between  them}  I  will  take  his  lot.  Put 
me  in  his  place. 

Orl.  You  are  not  a  peasant. 

Adr.  I  live  as  one,  work  as  one.  We  are  not  born  to  a 
class;  we  choose  it.  It  is  the  lad  who  is  no  peasant. 

Orl.  What  is  he  then? 

Adr.  A  student. 

Orl.  Ha!  In  the  University  of  Lonz!  No.  He  must 
come  with  us. 

Adr.  If  I  can  not  stand  for  him  I  will  stand  for  myself. 
I  am  one  of  these  people. 

A  voice.  No! 

Adr.  You  live  by  my  counsel.  I  too  must  live  by  it.  If 
I  shun  the  fate  it  brings  I  can  not  ask  you  to  believe  me 
again. 

[Sophie  moves  appealingly  forward,  then  back  unnoticed} 

Orl.  I  can't  oblige  you  with  a  flogging, — I  am  sorry  to 
say, — even  to  keep  you  in  favor  with  your  converts.  For 
ward!  To  the  line! 

Soph.  [Stepping  out]  Release  the  boy! 

Orl.  Who  are  you? 

Soph.  [Taking  off  her  hat]  You  know,  Count  Orloff. 

Orl.  I  salute  your  highness. 

Soph.  Release  him. 

Orl.  Again  I  salute  your  highness,  but  my  orders  are 
from  Petrizoff. 

Soph.  Mine  also.  Read  this.  [Holds  an  open  locket 
before  him] 

Orl.  [Reads]  "The  bearer  is  in  my  service.  Petrizoff." 
[Softly]  Ah,— the  tiara? 

Adr.  O  God! 

Orl.  We  release  Vasil  Vetrova.  [To  princess,  in  low 
tone]  When  may  I  see  you? 

Soph.  To-night,  at  the  ball. 


THE    SHEPHERD  157 

Or/.  [Bending  over  her  hand]  Till  then — silence.  [To 
the  men]  Forward! 

A  voice.  Must  we  go,  Shepherd  of  Lonz?  We  have 
hands  as  well  as  they!  Must  we  go? 

Adr.  Go.  The  millennium  is  no  lie,  and  the  man  who 
suffers  wrong  for  the  eternal  right's  sake  is  the  man  who 
brings  it  nearer.  Go!  And  God  give  you  strength  to  be 
true  to  yourselves — to  the  future — to  Him! 

[Orloff,  soldiers  and  peasants  pass  out.  Adrian  is  fol 
lowing  when  Sophie  comes  toward  him  hesitatingly] 

Adr.  I  must  go  with  the  people. 

Soph.  I  have  not  deceived  you  in  the  way  you  think. 

Adr.  [Passing  her]  I  must  go. 

Soph.  You  will  return  here? 

Adr.  This  is  my  home. 

Soph.  I  shall  wait  for  you. 

Adr.  Farewell!     [Exit] 

[Sophie  sta?ids  looking  after  him.  Vasil  approacties  and 
kneels  before  her.  She  gives  him  her  Jiand,  which  he  kisses 
reverently.  Curtain] 

SCENE  2.    Same  room  several  hours  later.     Sophie  alone, 
standing  by  tJie  small,  high  window,  left. 

Soph.  Almost  sunset.  [Turns  from  window]  And  he 
knows  I  am  waiting.  [Hears  a  step  in  the  yard  and  turns 
again  to  window.  Adrian  enters,  pauses  in  door,  and  sees 
Sophie  gazing  out.  He  advances] 

Adr.  Your  highness? 

Soph.  [Turning  her  head]  You  have  made  no  haste. 

Adr.  I  have  been  with  the  people. 

Soph.  [Looking  at  him]  You  are  tired.  I,  too,  went 
out,  but  it  was  so  terrible.  .  .  .  You  are  very  tired.  Sit 
down,  please.  I  want  to  stand.  [Takes  a  few  nervous 
steps  and  goes  back  to  window] 


158  THE    SHEPHERD 

Adr.  [Breaking  the  silence]  Is  there  anything  to  say? 

Soph.  [Not  turning]  The  horrible  thing  you  think  of 
me  is  not  true. 

Adr.  We  will  not  talk  about  that. 

Soph.  [Turns,  eagerly]  You  have  forgiven  me? 

Adr.  Yes. 

Soph.  As  the  saints  forgive,  or  for  love  of  me? 

Adr.  For  love  of  God,  not  you ! 

Soph.  [Smiling]  It's  the  same  thing,  isn't  it? 

Adr.  [In  embarrassment]  I — what  did  you  mean? 

Soph.  Come,  sit  down.  [She  takes  a  seat.  He  does  not 
move]  Do  rest.  You  will  drop.  [He  is  silent]  So  you 
do  not  love  me? 

Adr.  I  have  not  time  to  amuse  your  highness 

Soph.  [Rising]  Nor  I  to  be  amused.  I  know  the  truth. 
You  do  love  me.  I  saw  it  in  your  face  when  you  thought 
I  had  been  false.  I  knew  then  that  I  was  more  than  a 
mere  traitor.  I  was  beloved.  And  in  spite  of  the  suffer 
ing — the  sadness — the  shame — I  was  glad. 

Adr.  [Trembling]  Glad? 

Soph.  First,  let  me  tell  you  that  I  am  Petrizoff's  spy. 
[He  drops  to  a  seat]  He  wanted  to  convict  you.  You  are 
so  important,  it  seems,  that  proof  from  a  high  source  was 
necessary.  I  offered  to  supply  it.  [Smiles]  Don't  you 
see?  I  was  afraid  some  one  else  might  be  successful. 

Adr.  [Rising]  I  see.     You  are  only  false  to  Petrizoff. 

Soph.  [Hotly]  I  am  only  his  good  angel.  I  have  kept 
him  from  doing  terrible  things  by  not  finding  the  means 

Adr.  Forgive  me.  I  don't  understand  yet.  Why  did 
you  do  this — for  me? 

Soph.  You  were  doing  a  noble  work. 

Adr.  [Turns  away]  Yes,  it  was  my  work  you  wanted  to 
save. 

Soph.  Adrian!  [He  faces  her.  She  stands  in  the  light 
from  the  window]  You  came  to  the  Travinski  palace  two 


THE    SHEPHERD  159 

years  ago.  It  was  June,  like  this — [motioning  out] — and 
sunset — like  this.  Do  you  remember? 

Adr.  I  remember. 

Soph.  You  talked  to  my  father.  I  was  in  the  room. 
You  did  not  see  me,  a  mere  princess, — but  I  saw  you — 
heard  you.  I  could  not  leave — I  could  not  turn  away. 
Your  words  were  like  new  dreams  to  me.  .  .  .  And  after 
that  Petrizoff  appealed  to  my  father  to  furnish  evidence 
against  you.  He  consented  because  he  feared  your  power 
over  the  peasants.  I  begged  him  to  trust  the  matter  to 
me,  and  it  was  then  that  I  made  the  foolish  wager  with 
Petrizoff.  My  light  manner  deceived  him,  but  all  the 
time  my  heart  was  dying  within  me  for  fear  I  should 
fail. 

Adr.  [Falteringly]  Your  highness 

Soph.  O,  not  that!  I  have  called  you  Adrian  for  two 
years.  [He  is  silent,  and  she  continues]  The  Red  Cross 
work  gave  me  opportunities  to  see  you.  At  first  perhaps 
I  was  only  trying  to  save  you — and  win  you.  But  now  I 
know  that  I  am  true.  I  am  ready  to  die  for  the  things 
that  you  would  die  for,  not  for  your  sake  but  the  things' 
sake.  Though  I  do  not  love  you  less.  My  love  has  grown 
with  my  spirit.  When  we  met  this  morning  I  dared  to  put 
into  my  eyes  all  that  I  felt.  You  looked  as  though  you 
had  suddenly  met  a  being  out  of  Heaven,  but  it  was  not 
Heaven's  light  upon  my  face;  it  was  my  love  for  you. 

Adr.  Sophie  ...  let  it  be  the  light  from  Heaven,  not 
poor  human  love. 

Soph.  [Drawing  back]  Have  I — am  I — mistaken? 

Adr.  No.  I  love  you  as  I  have  prayed  never  to  love  in 
my  life. 

Soph.  And  I  love  you  as  I  have  prayed  all  my  life  I 
might  love. 

Adr.  There  are  greater  things — than  this. 

Soph.  I  know.     It  is  because  of  those  greater  things 


160  THE    SHEPHERD 

that  I  love  you.  [Touching  him  gently]  And  how  can 
love  be  anything  but  a  help — a  blessing? 

Adr.  By  taking  no  second  place;  by  making  itself  mas 
ter,  as  it  always  does;  as  it  is  doing  now. 

[Moves  from  her  in  agitation,  which  he  suppresses,  and 
speaks  steadily]  Years  ago  I  gave  myself  to  mankind.  A 
poor  gift,  but  the  surrender  was  hard,  for  I  loved  myself 
and  believed  in  giants,  if  not  gods,  who  shoulder  above 
the  race.  But  the  surrender  was  complete.  And  now 
shall  I  take  another  self  in  you?  One  that  I  could  never 
give  up? 

[She  is  silent.  A  woman  approaches  without,  moaning. 
Adrian  goes  to  the  door]  Anna? 

Anna.  [Appearing  at  door]  My  lad  is  dead,  sir.  He 
wanted  to  see  you  again,  but  there  was  none  to  send. 
Each  is  busy  with  his  own. 

Adr.  Dear  Nikola!     God's  rest  is  his. 

Anna.  Yes.  Heaven  is  a  good  place  for  our  children. 
'Tis  better  with  me  than  TJliana.  Her  Petrov  may  live, 
but  he  will  never  walk.  Can  you  come  to-night  and  sit  a 
bit  by  the  lad?  I'm  almost  thinkin'  he  would  know  it,  sir. 

Adr.  I  will  come,  Anna. 

Anna.  Just  a  bit.  I  wouldn't  keep  you  from  the  living. 
God  bless  you,  sir!  [Goes.  Adrian  remains  in  door  until 
her  footsteps  die  away,  then  returns  to  Sophie] 

Adr.  You  know  what  my  work  means.  The  daily  offer 
ing  up  of  the  body  to  prison  and  death.  That  does  not 
matter  now,  but  if  you  were  in  danger,  as  my  wife  would 
always  be,  do  you  doubt  that  I  would  try  to  save  you  at 
the  risk  of  all  for  which  I  have  lived?  And  I  have  lived 
for  it  because  it  was  the  one  righteous  way  for  me. 

Soph.  I  should  never  come  between  you  and  your  work. 

Adr.  I  gave  up  ambition — I  would  rather  move  with  the 
multitude  one  step  nearer  the  light  than  with  my  two  hands 
catch  at  the  sun.  I  gave  up  art — what  right  had  I  to  re- 


THE    SHEPHERD  161 

treat  into  the  beautiful  while  my  brothers  lay  blind  with 
out?  Burnish  my  spirit  to  reflect  gleams  beyond  the  sta~s, 
while  children  were  without  bread?  But  love?  O,  I 
thought  God  would  spare  me  this! 

Soph.  Adrian — you  don't  understand — I  should  not  be 
in  your  way — your  work  would  be  mine 

Adr.  O,  you  don't  understand — you  can't,  for  you  are  a 
woman,  whose  natural  breath  is  the  incense  of  sacrifice. 
But  in  me  there  is  no  angel.  If  you  were  mine,  I  would 
risk  everything  to  hold  you — one  bit  of  rosy  flesh  that  I 
might  kiss! 

Soph.  [Softly]  I  know  you  better  than  that. 

Adr.  Even  now  I  am  trembling  for  you,  thinking  more 
of  your  safety  than  of  the  poor  people  who  are  waiting  for 
me  as  their  only  hope.  You  must  leave  here  at  once — 
cease  trying  to  protect  me — what  you  have  done  for  Vasil 
may  arouse  the  suspicions  of  Petrizoff 

Soph.  He  will  not  hear  of  it.  I  spoke  to  Orloff.  [An 
swering  his  look]  I  can  take  care  of  myself,  Adrian. 
[Taking  his  hand]  It  is  you  who  need 

Adr.  [Withdrawing  his  hand]  Don't!  Who  lets  in  love, 
lets  in  his  master,  and  I  must  be  free — free!  You  will 
despise  me,  but  that  perhaps  is  the  better  way:  O,  I  long 
to  deceive  myself,  to  say  that  it  would  make  no  difference, 
that  I  could  see  the  chains  fastened  about  you,  see  you 
dragged  away,  and  go  on  unfalteringly  with  no  dimming 
of  the  vision.  But  it  would  be  a  lie. 

Soph.  The  truth.     You  could  do  it. 

Adr.  No.  And  you  would  riot  want  me  to  do  it  For 
give  me.  You  do  not  believe  it  now,  but  you  would  want 
me  to  love  you  first. 

Soph.  Yes.  But  I  should  not  let  you.  You  say  your 
self  that  sacrifice  is  woman's  breath.  I  could  give  up  even 
my  desire  to  be  first.  But  why  make  a  question  of  the  im 
possible?  No  woman  could  be  first  with  you,  Adrian. 


162  THE    SHEPHERD 

Adr.  O   you  don't  know! 

[A  man  comes  to  door,  rear,  makes  sign  of  the  cross  toward 
icon,  and  stands  waiting] 

Adr.  What  now,  Nico? 

Nico.  Petrov  Kalushkin  is  worse,  sir.  Can  you  come 
before  night? 

Adr.  In  ten  minutes. 

Nico.  The  Holy  Mother  bless  you,  sir!     [Exit] 

Soph.  [As  Adrian  turns  silently  to  her]  I  have  only  this 
to  say,  Adrian.  I  understand,  and  I  am  ready. 

Adr.  And  I  am  not.  I  know  the  man  in  me  too  well. 
I  can  not  trust  him.  While  you  are  safe,  and  I  am 
free,  go. 

Soph.  [Paling  and  gathering  up  her  pride]  I  am  sorry 
that  I  waited  for  the  command.  [Moving  to  right]  I  will 
speak  to  the  Vetrovas,  and  obey  you. 

Adr.  [As  she  opens  door]  Sophie! 

Soph.  [Turning]  Princess  Travinski!     [Exit] 

Adr.  Ah,  pride  will  not  help  her.  I  don't  know  what 
has  happened — what  I  have  done 

[Enter  Vasil,  centre  right,  carrying  his  violin] 

Vasil.  O,  has  she  gone? 

Adr.  No,  but  she  is  going. 

Vasil.  She  will  come  back? 

Adr.  Why  should  she?  Isn't  it  enough  that  she  has 
given  herself  to  us  for  one  day? 

Vasil.  She  has  given  herself  to  me  forever — by  saving 
my  life.  She  may  forget  you  and  the  others,  but  she  can't 
forget  me,  Adrian.  O,  I  have  been  so  happy  to-day! 

Adr.  To-day? 

Vasil.  I  have  finished  "The  Joy  of  the  Stars." 

Adr.  [Exultantly]  Your  sonata  finished?     To-day! 

Vasil.  You  have  been  right,  Adrian.  This  life  shall  not 
touch  me.  I  could  never  understand  it.  When  I  think 
of  it  I  grow  blind — blind — blind !  I  shall  sing — just  sing 


THE    SHEPHERD  163 

till  my  head  goes  off,  nor  ask  why.  The  people  are  good, 
honest,  work  from  light  to  dark,  yet  they  starve,  bleed, 
die.  And  I,  who  pray  to  harm  nothing,  I — this  morning — 
[stops,  shudders,  crosses  to  table,  rear,  lays  his  violin  upon 
it,  and  sits  despairingly.  Adrian  follows  and  puts  his  arm 
over  the  boy's  shoulders] 

Adr.  That  is  over,  lad.  You  will  soon  be  in  Berlin 
with  your  music,  and  you  will  forget.  Think  of  it  as  a 
dream  that  will  not  come  again. 

Vasil.  But  it  will  be  coming  to  others.  Always  some 
where  there  are  people  suffering,  in  prison,  mad,  tor 
tured 

Adr.  You  can  not  help  them  now,  Vasil.  And  to  let 
sympathy  destroy  your  power  for  work  will  rob  them  of 
the  joy  you  may  bring  them  hereafter.  Forget  them  for 
awhile  that  you  may  come  again  with  help,  not  tears,  that 
ease  your  heart  rather  than  theirs. 

Vasil.  No,  I  shall  not  forget — not  for  a  minute — but  I 
shall  work  and  be  blithe  of  soul,  for  what  has  the  soul  to 
do  with  the  tearing  of  the  heart,  unless  it  be  to  show  its 
free  wings  above  it?  If  I  wrere  imprisoned,  racked,  dying, 
I  should  want  the  music  to  go  on,  I  should  try  even  then  to 
help  it,  to  turn  my  cries  into  a  song.  That  is  why  I  can 
sing  while  they  suffer — because  happiness  is  the  right 
thing — because  I  am  ready  to  suffer  while  they  sing, — 
not  because  I  forget.  O,  you  can  trust  me,  Adrian !  And 
[with  sudden  appeal}  I  want  to  be  at  the  meeting  to 
night. 

Adr.  [Hastily]  No. 

Vasil.  Yes,  Adrian. 

Adr.  You  are  too  young. 

Vasil.  As  old  as  the  morning  star.  Do  not  be  afraid. 
Whatever  touches  me,  nothing  shall  touch  my  song. 

Adr.  Your  song  can  be  saved  only  with  your  life,  Vasil, 
and  this  meeting  is  dangerous.  In  a  few  days  you  are 


164  THE    SHEPHERD 

going  away.     We  will  not  uselessly  waste  your  heart  to 
night. 

VasiL  I  do  not  want  to  go  just  now,  Adrian.  Let  me 
stay  here  a  little  longer.  There  is  so  much  you  can  teach 
me  yet. 

Adr.  [Smiling]  You  make  better  music  than  I  can 
dream.  No,  it  is  time  to  go. 

VasiL  But  I  want  to  stay ! 

Adr.  [Quickly]  You  must  have  no  wishes.  [More  gently] 
Aside  from  your  art. 

VasiL  Art  can  breathe  only  through  life.  I  must  live! 
Art  is  for  men  and  women.  If  I  do  not  understand  them, 
how  can  they  understand  my  music?  I  shall  not  play  to 
sheep,  nor  rocks,  nor  stars,  nor  God,  nor  angels ! 

Adr.  You  know  what  I  mean,  Vasil.  In  heart  the  true 
artist  is  all  man,  all  woman;  but  in  genius,  as  impersonal 
as  the  universe. 

VasiL  I  know  it !  Have  I  not  proved  it  to-day?  Petrov 
Kalushkin  is  lying  over  yonder  bleeding  from  a  hundred 
lashes,  but  I — [taking  up  his  violin] — listen  to  "The  Joy 
of  the  Stars!" 

Adr.  [Laying  his  hand  on  the  bow]  Stop — no — I  mean — 
[silence.  Vasil  puts  down  the  violin  and  looks  at  Adrian] 
/  am  not  a  genius,  Vasil.  You  will  be  what  I  can  not. 

VasiL  And  you  will  trust  me?     I  may  be  at  the  meeting? 

Adr.  [Taking  his  hat]  Yes.  This  once.  And  then 
Berlin. 

VasiL  You  are  worn  out,  Adrian.     Must  you  go  again? 

Adr.  Again  and  again.  You  may  say  good-by  to  the 
princess  for  me. 

VasiL  Wait !  She  is  coming !  [Exit  Adrian,  street  door, 
as  Sophie  and  Vera  enter  left.  Sophie  has  on  hat  and 
ulster] 

Vera.  You  kissed  me  this  morning,  and  you  were  a 
princess. 


THE    SHEPHERD  165 

Soph.  And  I  will  kiss  you  again,  dear  Vera.  You  will 
be  ready  in  the  morning  for  the  visit  you  have  prom 
ised  me? 

Vera.  O,  yes! 

[They  cross  toward  Vasil] 

Vera.  I  shall  love  you  always  for  saving  my  Vasil.  It 
would  have  killed  him.  Adrian  has  guarded  him  always. 
[Lifting  VasiVs  hand]  See 

Vasil.  [Offended,  drawing  away  his  hand]  I  am  not  a 
child,  Vera. 

Vera.  [Hurt]  O,  Vasil! 

Vasil.  [Embracing  Jier]  There !  The  princess  will  think 
we  are  two  babies. 

Vera.  [With  dignity]  I  am  betrothed. 

Soph.  Happy  Alexander! 

Vasil.  [Jealously,  as  she  caresses  Vera]  Princess,  may  I 
play  to  you  before  you  go? 

Soph.  O,  will  you? 

Vera.  Sit  here,  princess. 

[Sophie  takes  tlie  large  chair,  Vera  sits  on  stool  beside 
her.  Vasil  gets  his  violin  from  table,  comes  over  and 
stands  ready  to  play.  Drops  the  bow  in  desperation] 

Soph.  What  is  the  matter? 

Vasil.  How  can  I  play  to  that  ugly  coat  and  hat? 

Soph.  [Laughing  and  removing  hat  and  ulster}  Is  that 
all? 

Vasil.  Now  you  are  my  princess ! 

Soph.  Yours? 

Vasil.  Yes.     You  have  sold  yourself  to  me. 

Soph.  I  have? 

Vasil.  By  doing  me  a  favor — the  most  binding  of  bar 
gains.  As  long  as  you  live  your  thoughts  will  come  back 
to  me.  Could  you  forget  me,  princess? 

Soph.  No,  Vasil.     But  you  must  not  care  so  much. 

Vasil.  Don't  you  like  me  to  care? 


166  THE    SHEPHERD 

i 

Soph.  Yes,  but 

Vasil.  Then  I  will.  O,  it  is  glorious  to  dream  and 
know  why !  To  sing  and  know  to  whom  the  song  belongs ! 

Soph.  My  boy,  make  your  country  your  goddess,  not  a 
woman. 

Vasil.  My  country!  What  is  it?  The  thing  that  raised 
a  knout  above  my  shoulders? 

Soph.  My  dear  Vasil 

Vasil.  Adrian  is  right.  I  must  find  that  which  is  not 
country,  nor  home,  nor  people, — the  eternal  in  the  hour. 

Soph.  But  Adrian  cares  for  country,  home,  people. 

Vasil.  No.  He  cares  only  for  the  soul.  These  other 
things  are  shadow  boundaries  in  the  mind  that  vanish 
when  the  soul  looks  on  them.  Here,  I'll  show  you  how 
little  he  cares.  [Unfastens  a  chain  from  his  neck  and 
draws  a  medal  from  his  bosom]  He  gave  me  this,  because 
I  wanted  it  to  play  with.  I  was  only  a  boy  then.  And  he 
forgot  all  about  it.  Have  you  noticed  how  Adrian  for 
gets?  I  would  not  give  it  back  because  he  was  going  to 
bury  it.  [Holding  out  medal]  See?  [Drawing  it  back] 
You  love  him,  don't  you? 

Soph.  Why — yes — you  strange  boy. 

Vasil.  Then  you  may  see  it. 

Soph.  [Turning  away]  No. 

Vasil.  But  I  want  you  to  look.  The  name  is  on  it — his 
grandfather's — great-grandfather's — O,  I  don't  know  how 
far  back.  But  I  am  sure  he  was  a  great  prince. 

Soph.  [Looking  at  medal]  Donskoi ! 

Vasil.  Wasn't  he  a  great  prince? 

Soph.  Yes.     But  a  greater  man. 

Vasil.  And  Adrian  could  be  a  prince  too.  [Re-fastening 
chain]  But  he  doesn't  care  at  all.  When  I  asked  him  if 
this  was  a  piece  of  the  sun,  he  said  "  No,  the  last  of  a  great 
shadow."  I  know  what  he  meant  now.  Why  are  you 
sad,  princess? 


THE    SHEPHERD  167 

Soph.  Because  I  have  been  unkind  to  Adrian. 

Vasil.  Don't  mind.  He  will  forgive  you.  He  forgives 
everybody  everything. 

Soph.  But  it  isn't  pleasant  to  be  forgiven  that  way,  as 
if  we  were  anybody  else.  I  want  to  be  forgiven  because 
I  am  myself. 

Vasil.  You  can't  with  Adrian.  His  star  is  the  soul, 
and  in  its  light  we  are  all  alike. 

Soph.  And  what  is  your  star,  Vasil? 

Vasil.  Mine?  It  is  the  same,  only  I  call  it  love  instead 
of  soul.  The  great  love — that  makes  one  heart  beat  in 
another's  body — that  makes  me  faint  in  Russia  when  a 
beggar  starves  in  India — that  fades  your  cheek  with  the 
girl's  at  an  English  loom — that  turns  the  comfortable 
American  out  of  doors  with  the  driven  Jew — that  gives 
one  color  to  every  flag,  and  makes  the  might  of  the  strong 
est  nation  the  right  of  the  Kaffir  babe.  This  is  my  star, 
as  Adrian's,  only  I  see  it  warm  and  golden  instead  of  cold 
and  white. 

Soph.  [Softly]  It  may  not  be  always  cold  and  white  to 
him. 

Vasil.  [Thoughtfully]  Perhaps  not,  or  he  would  not 
know  so  well 

Soph.  How  others  see? 

Vasil.  [Nods,  and  takes  up  his  violin]  Shall  I  play  now, 
princess? 

Soph.  Yes,  but  do  not  think  of  me, — think  of 

Vasil.  I  know.     The  great  love. 

[He  plays,  standing  by  window.  Vera  sits  leaning 
against  Sophie's  lap.  The  princess  gazes  toward  the  door, 
and  her  look  meets  Adrian's  as  he  enters.  He  crosses  and 
stands  by  her  chair.  She  reaches  up  and  gives  him  her 
hand,  which  he  clasps.  Curtain] 


ACT  II 

SCENE  1.  Same  room  at  night.  A  score  or  more  of  peasant 
men  and  women.,  and  half  as  many  revolutionists  assem 
bled.  They  are  singing  as  the  curtain  rises. 

Hark,  brothers,  hark! 

[Knock,  knock,  knock!] 
What  do  you  here, 
Knocking  in  the  cold? 
Red  are  your  hands, 
Frozen  are  your  feet, 

[Knock,  knock,  knock!] 
What  do  you  here, 
Knocking  in  the  cold? 

A  prison  we  build, 

[Knock,  knock,  knock!] 
Here  the  Czar  knelt, 
Blessing  the  stones; 
But  when  it  is  finished 
The  gates  will  unfold 
And  swallow  the  builders. 

[Knock,  knock,  knock!] 
They  who  labor  not, 
The  rich  and  the  idle, 
Will  imprison  the  workers 
Who  make  the  babe's  bread. 
Despair  drives  our  hammer, 
168 


THE    SHEPHERD  169 

The  hearts  of  the  toilers 

Lie  under  the  blow; 

We  will  throw  down  the  hammer, 

We  will  labor  no  more. 

No,  brothers,  no! 
Build  ye  the  prison, 
Be  willing  of  heart; 
And  when  it  is  finished, 
Your  heavy  oppressors 
Through  the  dark  gates 
In  terror  shall  pass. 
Weeping  to  dungeon 
The  rich  and  the  idle 
Then  shall  descend, 
WThile  above  ye  shall  sing, 
Swinging  your  hammers 
In  the  broad  light. 
Knock,  brothers,  knock! 
[Knock,  knock,  knock!] 

[At  close  of  song  Adrian  rises.     Silence] 

An  old  man.     Speak,  Adrian  Lavrov. 

Adr.     Brothers,  we  have  met  to  talk  matters  over. 

Manlief.     We  have  talked  for  seventy-five  years ! 

A  student.     The  lash  spoke  the  last  word  to-day. 

Old  man.     Speak,  Adrian  Lavrov. 

Adr.  Friends,  the  truth  that  was  clear  to  you  before 
the  enemy's  blow  fell  to-day  is  no  less  true  now  that  the 
blow  has  fallen. 

Manl.     Not  on  your  back,  Lavrov. 

A  peasant.  The  lash  of  the  Czar  goes  deeper  than  the 
words  of  the  preacher. 

Another.  We  have  obeyed  you  until  now,  shepherd  of 
Lonz. 


170  THE    SHEPHERD 

Adr.  [Gently]  And  you  will  obey  me  again. 

Manl.  You  will  obey  the  voice  of  your  own  manhood! 

Adr.  You  will  remember  that  you  bear  the  leaven  of  the 
race,  that  you  carry  in  your  blood  the  universal  peace. 

Manl.  Every  beat  of  your  hearts  is  telling  you  now  to 
be  men! 

Adr.  Submission  is  the  only  death-answer  to  vio 
lence.  The  world  for  very  shame  must  cease  to  crucify 
Christ! 

Gregorief.  [Leaping  up]  Move  your  Sunday-school  to 
the  dungeons  of  Schlusselburg !  Yes,  I  have  been  there. 
I  was  twenty  years  under  the  storm-waves  of  Lake  Ladoga, 
and  if  your  words  could  have  reached  me  through  the  damp 
walls  they  would  have  received  their  true  answer — a  mad 
man's  answer.  For  torture  does  not  give  men  the  serenity 
of  gods  or  preachers,  Lavrov.  Twenty  years  of  the  silence 
that  welcomes  the  silence  of  death — twenty  years  of  the 
loneliness  that  makes  men  pray  for  the  joy  of  weeping 
together — twenty  years  with  starving  eyes  on  naked  walls, 
while  above  me  the  great,  wide  seasons  were  going  by — 
twenty  years  of  void  and  gloom  with  the  windy  waters 
whipping  my  prison  island,  and  all  the  more  maddening 
because  I  could  not  hear  them,  because  they  too  were  a 
silent  guard.  I  was  like  this  boy  [touching  Vasil,  who  is 
leaning  toward  him  listening  intently]  when  they  put  me 
in,  and  I  came  out — as  you  see.  [Laughs  ironically] 
But  I  am  fortunate.  I  left  others  behind  me  to  whom 
those  dark  doors  will  never  open,  while  I  have  the  privi 
lege  of — dying  above  ground. 

Adr.  It  makes  no  difference  which  side  of  a  prison  door 
the  conquering  spirit  is  on,  Gregorief. 

Greg.  Ha!  I  wasn't  a  spirit  then.  They  put  me  in 
while  I  was  still  in  this  life,  where  the  flesh  throbs  and  the 
blood  sings.  I  was  like  this  boy,  I  say,  and  I  came  out 
two  months  ago  a  broken  consumptive  wretch.  You  see 


THE    SHEPHERD  171 

me,  Lavrov.  Am  I  fit  to  leaven  the  race?  7  am  what 
oppression  makes,  not  the  meek  angels  you  dream  about. 
Into  my  children  will  go  the  bitterness  of  the  wronged  to 
come  out  in  hate,  the  feebleness  of  the  broken  man  to 
come  out  in  cunning,  the  stinging  for  revenge  to  come  out 
in  murder 

Adr.  But  if  you  had  triumphed — the  immortal  you — 
what  a  soul  you  could  bequeath  to  your  country !  O,  one 
such  could  almost  save  her! 

Greg.  One!  She  has  them  by  the  thousand,  every 
where  thwarting  us — their  holy  tears  putting  out  our  living 
fire  as  fast  as  we  kindle  it!  [Laying  his  hands  on  Vasil] 
Ah,  here  is  a  spirit  worth  all  your  saints,  Lavrov.  Son, 
take  up  my  torch  as  I  drop  it — my  torch  and  sword, 
lad 

Vasil.  [Eager  and  trembling]  I  am  a  singer,  not  a  fighter. 

Greg.  Songs  are  good  weapons.  Write  them  for  us, 
boy.  Give  us  one  to-night  before  the  fire  dies  there. 
[Knocking  VasiVs  breast]  A  war-song 

Vasil.  [Springing  up]  I  will!  A  song  from  Schlussel- 
burg!  [RusJies  out,  street  door] 

Adr.  Are  you  the  devil,  Gregorief? 

Greg.  [Laughing]  If  I  am  I  must  have  my  legions.  Did 
you  intend  my  recruit  for  a  saint,  Lavrov?  [Fervidly]  I 
have  sworn  to  level  my  prison  before  I  die 

Adr.  You  have  laid  another  stone  upon  it.  There  is 
but  one  power  before  which  the  prisons  will  forever  fall — 
the  power  of  the  soul.  Strike  them  down,  and  the 
blows  that  lay  them  low  will  raise  them  again  for  your 
children. 

Greg.  Fanaticism !  You  can  not  fit  the  laws  of  Heaven 
to  the  energies  of  earth,  Lavrov!  I  tell  you 

Galovkine.  Leave  this.  We've  no  time.  The  burning 
of  Yaltowa  is  fixed  for  to-morrow  night. 

Adr.  [Dazed]  The  burning  of  Yaltowa! 


172  THE    SHEPHERD 

Greg.  Yes,  Lavrov.  Petrizoff  intends  to  burn  the  town 
in  our  name.  We  are  moving  too  fast  toward  the  favor  of 
the  world,  and  must  be  repainted  as  red  ogres. 

Adr.  Burn  the  town ! 

Manl.  [Bitterly]  That  is  not  so  bad  a  matter.  What  are 
a  few  thousand  homes  more  or  less  in  a  country  where  no 
house  is  safe?  The  terrible  part  is  the  blow  to  the  cause. 
Our  great  parties  were  never  more  united,  never  so  ready 
for  a  telling  stroke,  and  this  horrible  crime  laid  at  the  door 
of  the  revolutionists 

Adr.  It  must  be  prevented!     We  must  act  at  once 

Manl.  And  get  clapped  into  prison  a  little  sooner.  There 
is  not  time  now  for  general  action. 

Adr.  Burnt?     The  horror  of  it! 

Greg.  [Looking  at  Adrian]  It  can  be  prevented. 

Adr.  How? 

Greg.  Petrizoff  is  the  whole  plot,  and  he  is  not  immortal. 

Adr.  [After  a  cold  silence]  You  are  a  fool  to  say  this  to 
me,  Gregorief. 

Greg.  Reserve  your  judgment  till  you  know  yourself 
better.  Your  heart  is  with  us,  Lavrov,  in  spite  of  your 
preaching. 

Adr.  Do  you  suppose  I  would  quietly  permit  this 
murder? 

Greg.  Will  you  quietly  permit  Petrizoff's  ten-thousand 
murders  ? 

Adr.  There  is  a  difference. 

Greg.  Yes.  We  put  one  assassin  to  righteous  death,  he 
murders  thousands  of  honest  men. 

Adr.  [In  same  tone  as  before]  There  is  a  difference. 

Greg.   Your  difference! 

Adr.  God's  difference.  The  wicked  may  do  their  worst 
and  the  world  still  hope,  but  if  the  children  of  light  borrow 
their  weapons 

Greg.  There  is  but  one  way  to  fight  the  devil ! 


'>HE 
fOJttg^^ 

».  If  you  u 


you  use  his  own  fire  you  must  live  in  hell  to 
doit. 

Greg.  And  we  don't  live  in  hell  now,  I  suppose! 

Adr.  Not  an  everlasting  one.  You  have  the  selfish 
ness  of  the  living  generation,  Gregorief,  that  consumes  as 
its  candle  the  sun  of  the  unborn. 

Greg.  Bah!  Each  generation  must  fight  for  its  own 
breath. 

Adr.  Who  conquers  with  a  club  will  rule  with  a  club. 
It  is  only  through  the  enduring  righteousness  now  taking 
deepest  root  in  the  night  of  oppression  that  true  liberation 
will  come,  pushing  upward  to  flower  in  the  conscience  of 
every  man.  When  we  are  free  from  within,  government 
will  of  itself  fall  away 

Greg.  Anarchy! 

Adr.  Yes.  Anarchy  of  the  soul,  not  of  the  blood.  The 
anarchy  that  Christ  saw  when  he  said  the  meek  shall  in 
herit  the  earth.  This  is  the  vision  before  me,  the  vision 
that  I  held  before  the  bleeding  bodies  in  Lonz  to-day 

Greg.  To  the  devil  with  your  visions !  Man  will  always 
be  a  worm  while  he  crawls !  It  is  those  who  have  remem 
bered  their  stature  that  have  done  most  for  the  race.  And 
I — from  under  their  feet — with  Death's  hand  upon  me — 
I  will  remember  mine ! 

\Galorkine,  who  is  watching  at  the  door,  steps  forward, 
lifting  his  hand  in  signal.  Instantly  tJie  scene  becomes  one 
of  merrymaking.  A  man  who  sits  on  shelf  above  stove  be 
gins  fiddling,  and  a  peasant  dances  a  clog  in  the  middle  of 
the  floor.  Orlofi  enters,  followed  by  two  or  three  guards. 
Vetrova  rises  to  meet  them] 

Vet.  You  are  welcome. 

Or/.  A  jolly  ending  to  the  day,  good  people. 

Vet.  We've  reason  to  be  merry,  sir,  as  you  know,  who 
spared  my  lad  this  morning. 

Cath.  And  you  too,  Petrovich. 


174  THE    SHEPHERD 

Vet.  Eh,  but  I  don't  count,  mother. 

Orl.  'Tis  sporting  time  with  us  too.  We  are  on  our  way 
to  the  officers'  ball  at  Yaltowa.  A  little  gayety  after  the 
hard  work  at  Petoff.  Glad  to  find  you  are  not  making 
more  trouble  for  us. 

Vet.  We've  had  our  lesson,  sir. 

Orl.  [Suspiciously]  And  this  happy  meeting  is  to  en 
courage  yourselves  in  good  intentions? 

Vet.  Sir,  we  are  true  men. 

[Vasil  suddenly  appears  in  door,  rear,  waving  a  paper] 

Vasil.  I  have  it:     The  song  is  ready! 

Adr.  [Looking  meaningly  at  Vasil]  Don't  be  so  sure  of 
your  first  effort,  my  boy.  Better  let  it  get  cold. 

Orl.  No,  we'll  hear  it.     That  paper  looks  interesting. 

Vasil.  Pardon  me.  [Folds  paper  and  puts  it  into  his 
pocket] 

Orl.  I  insist  upon  hearing  it. 

Vasil.  [Taking  paper  out  reluctantly]  'Tis  merely  a  song, 
sir,  and  will  hardly  bear  reading.  I  will  sing  it  for  you. 
[Unfolds  paper  slowly]  A  Welcome  to  Summer,  friends. 
'Tis  an  old  chorus,  and  you  can  help  me  with  it.  [Sings] 

Come  out,  come  out  with  me 
To  meet  the  summer  maid! 
A  queen,  a  queen  is  she, 
Whose  love  is  as  the  sea 
That  would  all  lands  caress, 
Whose  loves  are  many  as  the  sands, 
And  each  a  sovereign  is, 
For  whom  her  arms  enring 
Is  royal  by  her  kiss, 
Forevermore  a  king,  a  king,  a  king! 

Come,  dance,  dance,  dance,  and  welcome  the  summer  maid ! 
Who  has  looked  into  her  eyes  is  nevermore  afraid! 


THE    SHEPHERD  175 

We  will  gather  our  hearts  together,  we  will  mingle  our 

feet  on  the  grass, 

We  will  hold  her  with  kisses,  nor  ever,  nor  ever  let  her  pass ! 
[The  peasants  join  in  chorus] 

Her  free  step  is  the  dawn 
No  darkness  can  waylay, 
Her  laugh  is  the  wild  waterfall 
By  winter  never  chained, 
Her  hair  the  winds  unreined, 
Her  eyes  unbridled  sun, 
And  all  the  waves  are  in  her  call 
That  heard  is  never  still, 
Her  breath  the  clouds  that  hie 
Free  as  they  list  or  will, 
And  in  her  bosom  find  a  greater  sky! 

Ye  mothers,  come,  forsake 
Dead  fire  and  frozen  hearth; 
The  bones  ye  call  your  babes,  awake, 
For  in  her  lap  she  bears 
Sweet  grain  and  golden  ears 
That  warming  in  their  veins  shall  make 
The  ruddy  might  of  men; 
Your  daughters  that  now  lie 
Blanched,  broken,  still,  shall  then 
Lift  up  rose  faces  and  forget  to  die. 

Old  Winter  in  his  snows 

Is  covered,  covered  deep, 

For  all  above  him  lie  his  slain, 

And  not  until  his  breath 

Has  warmed  them  out  of  death 

May  he  arise  from  his  cold  sleep. 

Good-by,  good-by,  good-by, 


176  THE    SHEPHERD 

Old  Winter  dead  and  white, 
No  more  meet  you  and  I, 
A  last  and  long,  a  long  and  last  good-night! 

[As  the  chorus  is  sung  the  last  time,  Vasil  dances  out 
among  the  peasants,  who  join  hands  with  him  and  all  move 
in  a  ring,  singing] 

Orl.  I  congratulate  you.  And  now  will  you  favor  me 
with  the  copy? 

Vasil.  [Seeming  to  hesitate]  'Tis  hardly  worthy 

Orl.  [Taking  it]  Leave  that  to  me.  [Glances  disap 
pointedly  at  song,  repeating  the  first  line]  Humph!  Yes 
.  .  .  [Puts  it  into  his  pocket]  So  you  are  all  true  men  en 
joying  yourselves?  I've  no  objection.  On  the  contrary. 
I'm  in  the  humor  to  join  you  if  my  lady  Bright-eyes  [look 
ing  at  Vera]  will  honor  me. 

[Vera  rises,  curtsies,  and  couples  spring  up,  forming  a 
dance,  Orloff  and  Vera  leading] 

Orl.  [At  close  of  the  dance]  Thank  you,  Bright-eyes.  I 
shall  find  no  fairer  partner  at  the  ball,  whither  I  must  be 
going.  And  here,  young  man.  I  will  leave  you  your 
song.  It  may  be  your  only  copy.  [Brings  out  several 
papers  from  his  pocket  and  looks  them  over]  Here  is  the 
song,  but  .  .  .  [Assumes  sudden  sternness]  A  serious  mat 
ter.  I  have  lost  an  important  paper  since  I  came  into  this 
room.  [Looks  searchingly  at  their  faces]  An  important 
paper  on  official  business.  [All  are  silent,  betraying  no 
emotion.  He  turns  his  gaze  to  Vera,  who  is  sitting  by  her 
grandfather]  Ah,  my  little  lady,  perhaps  your  fingers  were 
busy  in  the  dance.  Come  forward,  please. 

[Vera  steps  out,  bewildered] 

Vera.  I  did  not  touch  it. 

Orl.  Of  course  not.  Now  will  you  shake  your  scarf, 
please?  Yes,  I  will  do  it  for  you.  [Shakes  her  scarf  and  a 
paper  drops  to  the  floor.  Orlofj  picks  it  up]  Ah,  found! 


THE    SHEPHERD  177 

Good,  but  rather  a  sad  affair  for  you,  little  one.  Even 
fingers  so  dainty  as  yours  must  not  meddle  with  the  Czar's 
papers. 

Vera.  I  did  not  touch  them ! 

Orl.  Of  course  not.  But  you  must  come  with  me. 
[Mutterings  from  the  men]  I  hear  you,  friends.  If  any  of 
you  want  to  come  along  just  make  it  known.  Our  prisons 
are  well  stuffed,  but  we  can  manage  to  pack  away  all 
present. 

Adr.  [After  a  second  of  silence]  The  child  is  innocent. 

Orl.  O,  you  want  to  go,  do  you?  But  you  happen  to 
be  the  one  we  don't  want — yet.  Anybody  else? 

Vera.  [Sobbing]  I  did  not  touch  it. 

Orl.  You  may  tell  that  to  Petrizoff.  He  is  always  kind 
to  beauty. 

Vera.  [I?i  terror]  Am  I  going  to  him? 

Orl.  He  will  not  be  far  away,  I  imagine. 

Adr.  You  can  not  take  this  child.  The  paper  was  not 
stolen. 

Orl.  You  saw  it  drop  from  her  scarf. 

Adr.  Where  you  put  it. 

Orl.  [In  a  rage]  Your  mouth  will  soon  be  shut!  If  I 
could  have  had  my  way  this  morning  your  hide  wouldn't 
hold  shucks  to-night! 

[Noise  of  a  carnage  at  door.  Sophie  enters  in  ball  dress. 
She  draws  back  in  astonishment  at  sight  of  Orloff] 

Soph.  [Faintly]  You  here? 

Orl.  And  you? 

Soph.  [Composed]  May  I  speak  to  you,  Count  Orloff? 

Orl.  At  your  sendee,  your  highness. 

[They  draw  aside,  left,  front.  The  peasants  talk  in  low 
tones.  Guards  stand  by  Vera] 

Soph.  Of  course  I  know  why  you  are  here,  but  I  had  to 
simulate  surprise. 

Orl.  You  were  very  successful. 


178  THE    SHEPHERD 

Soph.  Since  the  exposure  of  this  morning  the  people  are 
ready  to  suspect  me,  and  I  must  retain  their  confidence  or 
my  usefulness  is  at  an  end. 

Orl.  Quite. 

Soph.  They  heard  to-day  of  the  girl's  danger,  and  were 
planning  her  escape,  so  I,  not  knowing  whether  you  would 
arrive  in  time,  stopped — to 

Orl.  Yes? 

Soph.  Quiet  their  fears  and  assure  them  of  her  safety. 
Are  there  any  prisoners  besides  the  girl? 

Orl.  No,  but  I  would  give  something  to  take  this  inso 
lent  Shepherd.  I've  only  a  few  hours  to  wait  though. 

Soph.  A  few  hours? 

Orl.  Yes — ah,  you  don't  know  everything  then! 

Soph.  Dear  man,  I  know  everything  but  one, — that  is, 
how  much  you  know.  If  you  will  go  to  the  ball  in  my 
carriage  we  may  find  out  how  far  we  can  trust  each  other. 

Orl.  Angel! 

Soph.  Don't !  The  people — you  must  pretend  to  oppose 
me.  They  think  I  am  interceding  for  the  girl. 

Orl.  [As  if  suddenly  recalling  something]  Why  did  you 
save  the  boy  this  morning? 

Soph.  I  will  explain  that  too — in  the  carriage.  We 
must  go  now.  I  first,  so  they  will  not  know  we  leave  to 
gether. 

Orl.  [Crestfallen]  I  promised  Petrizoff  not  to  leave  the 
girl  till  I  had  her  safe  in  prison.  There  have  been  so  many 
escapes 

Soph.  [With  a  glance  at  Vera]  She  is  pretty.  Good- 
evening  then. 

Orl.  Wait — I  will  go  with  you ! 

Soph.  [Melting]  Will  you?  Then  you  sha'n't.  You 
shall  take  no  risks  for  me. 

Orl.  Risk!  I  would  risk  anything.  Ah,  you  can't  de 
prive  me  now. 


THE    SHEPHERD  179 

Soph.  Can  you  trust  the  guards? 

Orl.  I  will  trust  them! 

Soph.  Very  well.  I  will  wait  for  you.  [Going,  stops  be 
fore  Adrian]  I  have  not  been  able  to  obtain  her  release, 
but  I  am  sure  there  is  hope.  At  least  I  have  touched 
Colonel  Orloff's  heart.  Have  I  not,  Count? 

Orl.  You  have  indeed! 

Soph.  [Looking  steadily  at  Adrian]  And  you  will  hear 
news  of  great  importance  before  morning.  [To  Orloff] 
^Yill  he  not? 

Orl.  Without  doubt,  your  highness. 

Soph.  [Going,  again  turns  to  Adrian]  The  Count  will 
give  you  his  word  that  /  am  to  be  trusted. 

Orl.  To  be  sure,  your  highness. 

Soph.   Good -night.     [Exit] 

Orl.  [After  following  Sophie's  departure  with  a  fatuous 
look]  Come,  lady-bird,  we  must  be  moving.  [Starts  out, 
the  guards  following  with  Vera.  Vetrova,  who  has  seemed 
quite  stunned,  suddenly  rushes  after  them  and  beats  guards 
with  his  crutch] 

Orl.  [Seizing  him  by  the  collar  and  throwing  him  to  the 
floor]  You  old  fool!  AYe  don't  want  to  bother  with  you! 

[Exeunt  Orloff,  guards  and  Vera.  Vetrova,  lying  on  floor, 
lifts  his  fist  and  curses] 

Adr.  [Bending  over  him]  Petrusha! 

Vet.  Let  me  be,  Adrian  Lavrov !  I  have  held  my  peace 
all  my  life  to  die  cursing  at  last !  I  was  dumb  when  they 
broke  my  bones  under  the  rod.  I  was  dumb  when  my 
son  died  under  the  lash.  But  Yera,  my  little  girl — dragged 
to  that — O  God,  send  thy  fires  upon  him!  Curse  him— 
curse  him — curse [Dies.  The  peasants  cross  them 
selves.  Some  kneel  before  the  icon,  praying.  Catherine 
gazes  at  Vetrova  in  Jwpeless  terror.  Galorkine  kneels  and 
examines  the  body] 

Galovkine.  Dead. 


180  THE    SHEPHERD 

Cath.  Dead — and  a  curse  on  his  lips.  My  Petrusha — 
dead — and  a  curse  on  his  lips. 

[Two  men  pick  up  the  body  and  bear  it  off  right  centre, 
Adrian  opening  the  door.  Catherine  follows  with  several 
women.  The  other  peasants  go  off  silently,  street  door, 
leaving  only  Adrian,  Vasil  and  the  revolutionists] 

Greg.  As  I  was  saying  when — the  Czar  interrupted  us — 
Petrizoff  must  die.  And  you  will  help  us,  Lavrov.  Yes 
— you  must!  You  say  yourself  that  our  best  hope  lies  in 
sympathy  and  sentiment 

Adr.  Which  the  bomb  utterly  destroys. 

Greg.  Not  when  the  Shepherd  throws  it.  Wait!  I  do 
not  mean  that  literally,  for  this  [raising  his  hand]  is  the 
consecrated  hand.  But  your  name  as  our  leader  would 
sanctify  the  deed. 

Adr.  Your  leader? 

Greg.  Yes.  Not  only  for  this,  but  for  our  army.  Your 
name  is  a  divine  word  in  every  peasant  home  in  Russia. 
It  is  cheered  by  every  body  of  workmen  gathered  together 
to-night,  and  in  the  army  who  would  not  surrender  the 
colors  of  Romanov  to  the  hero  line  of  Donskoi? 

Adr.  [Starting]  Gregorief 

Greg.  Wait !  They  are  all  ready  now.  The  peasantry, 
inspired  by  the  teaching  of  our  martyrs  for  the  last  thirty 
years, — the  nobility  with  awakened  conscience, — the  work 
men,  one  great  body  with  suspended  arms, — the  army  of 
the  Czar  ready  to  become  the  army  of  the  people, — all 
await  their  leader — you!  [A  pause]  Russia  is  looking 
but  one  way — to  freedom.  To-day  you  may  lead  us  to 
victory  almost  without  blood.  Let  Petrizoff  commit  this 
crime  in  the  name  of  liberty,  and  to-morrow  we  shall  be 
like  the  scattered  limbs  of  a  dissevered  body.  You  will 
not  let  this  be,  Lavrov.  You  will 

Adr.  No!  Let  civilization  wait  another  century  rather 
than  deliver  her  flag  to  the  hands  of  murderers ! 


THE    SHEPHERD  181 

Greg.  And  where  is  it  now  if  not  in  the  hands  of  mur 
derers? 

Adr.  It  is  not  in  their  hands,  Gregorief,  but  in  ours,  that 
are  yet  clean.  Do  this  thing,  and  it  is  you,  not  Petrizoff, 
who  give  the  greatest  blow  to  freedom.  The  world  is  just 
beginning  to  understand  us 

Greg.  Yes!  Where  is  that  understanding  growing 
strongest?  In  America.  And  how  does  the  autocracy 
propose  to  meet  this  new  influence?  By  a  secret  com 
mercial  treaty  with  the  United  States.  Give  any  govern 
ment  a  pocket  interest  in  the  security  of  another  and  to  the 
winds  with  sympathy !  Petrizoff  has  his  agents  there  now, 
and  the  burning  of  Yaltowa  is  only  a  part  of  his  scheme  to 
chill  the  hearts  that  are  warming  to  us.  But  he  shall  not 
live  to  do  it.  You  will  not  let  him  live,  Lavrov.  My  God, 
don't  you  see  that  your  opportunity  has  come? 

Adr.  Yes.  My  opportunity  to  point  once  more  to  where 
the  sun  shall  rise. 

Greg.  The  sun  never  rises  on  the  blind.  You  would 
throw  us  back  into  night  for  another  thousand  years ! 

Adr.  What  are  a  thousand  years  to  the  soul  of  man  on 
the  right  path  to  the  right  thing? 

Galovkine.  [Plucking  at  Gregorief]  Come  away.  We 
lose  time  here. 

Greg.  Not  until  I  tell  this  fool  where  he  stands!  You 
imagine,  Lavrov,  that  you  are  a  friend  to  freedom,  but  a 
greater  enemy  does  not  tread  Russian  soil.  Why  does  the 
government  leave  you  at  work?  Because  of  your  power  to 
subdue  the  spirit  in  men.  It  is  you — such  as  you — who 
forget  our  shackles  and  fill  the  prisons.  But  thank  the 
Powers  that  keep  the  race  alive,  there  are  still  some  of  us 
who  believe  in  manhood — in  the  virtues  of  the  heart  as 
well  as  the  soul — in  courage,  honor,  justice!  [To  the 
others]  Come  up  to  Breshloff's.  We  will  finish  there. 

[Enter  Korelenko  hurriedly] 


182  THE    SHEPHERD 

Greg.  [Grasping  his  hand}  Korelenko!  The  word? 
What  is  it? 

Kore.  What  you  wished.  We  needed  only  the  consent 
of  the  Social  Democrats  to  Petrizoff's  death 

Greg.  Yes,  yes! 

Kore.  And  I  have  brought  their  sanction 

Greg.  [Almost  sobbing]  Thank  God! 

Kore.  If  it  is  done  under  the  leadership  of  the  Shep 
herd  of  Lonz. 

[Adrian  staggers  back  against  loom] 

Greg.  [Clutching  Korelenko]  Take  back  that  infernal 
proviso ! 

Kore.  I  thought  you  wished  it. 

Greg.  I  did,  when  I  believed  the  man  there  was  human. 

Kore.  He  is.  The  most  human  of  us  all.  You  don't 
know  him.  Adrian,  you  see  that  all  depends  upon  you 

Adr.  [Waving  him  away]  Begone — all  of  you ! 

Manl.  Come !  God  gave  us  good  right  arms.  We  need 
not  wait  for  Lavrov's. 

Kore.  But  can  we  do  without  the  Social  Democrats? 

Greg.  Yes !     We  have  the  others.     Come  to  BreshlofTs ! 

[All  go  except  Korelenko,  who  lingers  in  the  door.  Adrian 
sits  exhausted  on  bench  before  loom] 

Adr.  Sasha? 

Kore.  [Turning  back  quickly]  Well? 

Adr.  You  have  chosen? 

Kore.  Between  my  friends  and  my  enemies?     Yes. 

Adr.  Between  the  body  and  the  soul. 

Kore.  Soul!  There  is  none  in  Russia.  W7hen  we  get 
possession  of  our  bodies  we  may  be  permitted  to  cultivate 
souls ! 

Adr.  If  you  would  wait  a  little,  Sasha.  Reforms  are 
coming.  The  Czar  will  grant  a  constitution 

Kore.  He  will  grant  what  we  take,  no  more.  And  what 
do  we  gain  if  he  gives  us  a  constitution  and  keeps  his  army? 


THE    SHEPHERD  183 

If  he  gives  us  schools  and  exiles  the  teachers?  If  he  gives 
us  freedom  and  denies  it  to  the  men  who  have  won  it — 
our  brothers  in  the  dungeons?  No,  we  want  our  constitu 
tion,  not  the  Czar's — a  constitution  with  law  and  justice 
behind  it,  not  an  army. 

Adr.  Is  it  time?     There  is  so  much  ignorance  yet 

Kore.  Ignorance!  Where  is  it  greater  than  among  our 
masters?  We  suffer  as  much  from  their  stupidity  as  their 
oppression.  I  hate  the  ass's  head  more  than  the  tyrant's! 

Adr.  But  the  poor,  illiterate  peasants.  Are  they 
ready— — 

Kore.  Viatka  and  Perm  answer  that!  There,  where 
they  have  been  let  alone,  they  have  established  the  best 
governed  provinces  in  Russia.  But  here,  where  ignorance 
is  protected — do  you  know  w^hat  will  happen  if  Yaltowa  is 
burnt?  The  peasants  of  Karitz  will  be  led  into  the  town 
to  pillage  and  slaughter  in  the  name  of  Christ. 

Adr.  [In  horror]  Karitz !  My  poor  people !  I  must  go 
there  at  once. 

Kore.  There?  It  is  only  because  you  are  here  that 
Lonz  will  not  be  led  into  it.  [Ironically]  Since  you  can 'I 
be  everywiiere,  hadn't  we  better  devise  some  other  means 
for  the  protection  of  the  people? 

Adr.  O,  it  is  horrible ! 

Kore.  More  horrible  than  you  dream.  A  good  man  can 
not  know  how  bad  the  world  is,  for  he  can  never  get  away 
from  himself. 

[Re-enter  Manlief] 

Manl.  Come,  Korelenko.     We  shall  be  too  late. 

Adr.  He  is  not  going. 

Manl.  No?  I'll  stiffen  his  heart.  You  don't  know,  do 
you,  that  your  little  Vera  has  been  taken  to  Petrizoff  ? 

Kore.  [Stares  in  amazement,  and  clutches  Adrian]  Is  this 
a  lie? 

Adr.  She  has  been  arrested. 


184  THE    SHEPHERD 

Kore.  You  let  her  be  taken? 

Adr.  I  had  no  choice. 

Kore.  There  is  always  a  choice.  You  could  have  killed 
her.  [Breaks  down] 

Manl.  [Touching  him]  Come. 

Kore.  Yes!     Go  on!    I'll  come! 

Manl.  At  Breshloff's.     [Exit] 

Kore.  [Savagely,  starting  up]  You  would  save  his  life 
knowing  that! 

Adr.  What  has  Vera's  misfortune — yours — mine — to  do 
with  an  eternal  principle? 

Kore.  Damn  your  principle!  It  will  put  us  all  into 
hell! 

Adr.  The  princess  may  be  able  to  do  something  for  her. 
She— 

Kore.  You  still  believe  in  that  spy?  [Adrian  is  silent. 
Korelenko  looks  at  him]  Forgive  me.  You  love  her.  No ! 
If  you  knew  what  love  is  you  would  help  me! 

Adr.  [Going  to  him  as  he  reaches  the  door]  Wait.  I  do 
know.  I  love  her  even  as  you  love  Vera,  and  I  swear  to 
you  that  if  she  stood  in  Vera's  place  my  answer  would  be 
the  same. 

Kore.  [Abstractedly]  You  love  her.  [Starts  suddenly 
away] 

Adr.  You  will  stay  now,  Sasha? 

Kore.  Now?     No.     There  is  something  to  do  now. 

[Exit] 

Adr.  Light,  light,  O  my  God! 

[Door  opens,  right  centre,  and  a  woman  appears] 

Woman.  Can  you  come  to  Catherine  Vetrova  now, 
sir? 

[Adrian  bows  his  head  and  follows  her  out.  Vasil,  who 
has  been  sitting  behind  the  little  table  rear,  at  times  listening 
eagerly,  at  times  overcome,  rises  and  moves  slowly  forward, 
carrying  his  violin] 


THE    SHEPHERD  185 

Vasil.  [Repeats  softly]  "As  impersonal  as  the  uni 
verse." 

[Strikes  two  or  three  notes  on  the  violin  and  stops,  terrified. 
DasJies  the  instrument  down  and  throws  himself  to  the  floor, 
sobbing]  O,  Vera!  Vera!  Vera! 

[Curtain] 

SCENE  2.  The  same.     Vasil  still  lying  on  the  floor.     Adrian 
enters  right,  crosses  and  attempts  to  rouse  him. 

Adr.  You  must  go  to  bed,  my  son.  There  is  nothing 
for  you  to  do. 

Vasil.  [Rising]  Nothing  for  me  to  do?  Why  am  I  in 
the  world  then? 

Adr.  To  be  our  light — our  song — to  find  our  angels  for  us. 

Vasil.  [Looking  down  at  his  violin]  It  is  broken. 

Adr.  [Picking  it  up]  You  will  mend  it. 

Vasil.  And  the  heart  too?  [Goes  to  table,  left  front,  and 
sits  by  it,  despondent  and  thoughtful]  We  were  wrong  to 
day,  Adrian.  I  was  wrong.  No  one  has  a  right  to  hap 
piness  while  others  are  suffering  because  of  things  that  are 
in  the  power  of  man  to  help.  The  good  people  who  forget 
what  is  out  of  sight,  as  if  misery — or  duty — were  a 
question  of  eyes  and  ears,  they  are  the  most  to  blame. 
[Rises]  If  they  would  all  help — just  all  of  the  good. 
[Goes  to  door,  rear,  and  stands  a  moment  looking  out]  The 
princess  dances  at  the  ball  to-night. 

Adr.  My  boy! 

Vasil.  [Coming  back  to  Adrian]  But  they  will  not  all 
help — not  yet.  Perhaps  the  world  of  peace  must  come 
before  the  world  of  love,  not  out  of  it  ...  as  war  has 
come  before  peace.  The  law  of  Moses  was  once  the  best 
law.  His  race  saved  itself  by  it.  Has  the  day  of  its 
necessity  passed,  Adrian?  Are  we  sure? 


186  THE    SHEPHERD 

Adr.  It  has  passed  for  the  man. 

Vasil.  But  humanity  is  so  far  behind  the  man. 

Adr.  [Gently]  That  is  what  made  Christ. 

Vasil.  And  that  is  what  killed  him! 

[Enter  a  priest,  street  door] 

Priest.  Blessed  be  this  house. 

Adr.  Welcome,  father. 

Priest.  Is  death  here? 

Adr.  Yes,  father.  [Crosses  to  right  and  opens  door  for 
priest  to  enter]  You  have  many  visits  to  make  to-night. 

Priest.  Many,  my  son.  [Stops  before  Adrian]  I  have 
a  message  for  the  Shepherd  of  Lonz. 

Adr.  [Taking  letter]  Thank  you,  father. 

Priest.  Thank  her  that  sent  it,  and  God  who  made  her 
heart.  [Passes  into  room,  right] 

Adr.  [After  looking  over  letter]  The  princess  has  danced 
to  some  purpose,  my  boy.  Vera  is  free.  She  will  be  on 
her  way  to  Odessa  by  morning. 

Vasil.  Free?  The  princess  saved  her?  My  princess! 
Did  she  write  it  ?  [  Taking  letter]  I  will  read  it  with  kisses ! 

Adr.  It  must  be  burnt. 

Vasil.  No,  let  me  keep  it — a  little  while. 

Adr.  We  must  be  careful.     Hush — some  one  is  coming. 

[Vasil  retreats  to  table,  rear.  Enter  Korelenko  in  great 
agitation] 

Kore.  Yaltowa  is  on  fire!  We  are  one  night  too  late! 
They  must  have  heard 

Adr.  On  fire?     Now? 

Kore.  I  waited  with  Gregorief  at  Breshloff's,  the  others 
went  on  to  Yaltowa,  where 

Adr.  You  waited  for  Petrizoff? 

Kore.  This  ball  was  only  to  cover  their  scheme 

Adr.    You  waited  with  Gregorief  for  Petrizoff? 

Kore.  He  will  pass  through  the  village  about  four 
o'clock. 


THE    SHEPHERD  187 

Adr.  But  now — O,  you  are  saved  from  that  thing! 

Kore.  Yes.  If  we  kill  him  now  the  fire  will  seem 
only  a  part  of  the  deed.  It  will  help  them  fix  the  lie 
upon  us. 

Adr.  Too  late,  thank  God! 

Kore.  You  think  of  nothing  but  Petrizoff !  What  of  the 
people  now  dying  in  Yaltowa?  Dying  because  he  lives? 
Go  see  the  horrors  there!  The  reactionists  are  every 
where  in  the  streets,  disguised  as  revolutionists,  looting 
and  murdering!  Your  Karitz  peasants  are  being  turned 
into  beasts 

[Adrian  gives  a  deep  groan  and  sits  overcome,  by  table 
front,  left] 

Kore.  It  is  not  too  late!  Our  friends — Russia — free 
dom — yet  may  live  if  you  will  help  us!  Your  name  will 
justify  Petrizoff 's  death  to  the  world.  With  the  loss  of 
their  chief  the  reactionists  will  be  in  confusion,  before 
they  can  recover  you  can  organize  the  great  leagues  into  a 
militia 

Adr.  You  are  mad  to  think  such  power  is  in  me. 

Kore.  You  don't  know  your  power!  You  can  do  it — 
you  only — and  it  must  be  done  now — before  the  war  in 
the  East  is  over — before  the  Czar  can  make  new  promises 
— give  us  the  mockery  of  a  constitution,  and  fool  half  of 
us  back  to  allegiance — before 

Adr.  [Rising,  shaken]  It  can  not  rest  with  me.  One 
man  can  not  make  destiny. 

Kore.  Yes,  when  that  man  is  you — when  the  time  is 
now!  Absolutism  is  at  its  ebb.  Will  you  wait  till  the  tide 
gathers  and  flows  over  us  again  in  waves  of  blood? 

Adr.  [To  himself,  walking]  Are  there  then  two  codes? 
One  for  the  man,  one  for  the  race?  And  when  they  con 
flict,  the  man  must  yield? 

Kore.  Codes!  The  question  of  a  man's  right  to  his 
breath  is  settled  outside  of  ethics!  O,  Adrian,  brother, 


188  THE    SHEPHERD 

be  a  man  to-night  and  not  a  preacher!  Never  in  the  his 
tory  of  the  world  has  there  been  a  revolution  so  ripe,  so 
terrible,  without  a  leader  to  march  at  its  head. 

Adr.  Humanity  has  dropped  the  club.  It  will  drop 
the  gun.  Even  the  soldiers  are  throwing  it  down.  And 
shall  I  pick  it  up— — 

Kore.  Only  for  a  day!  Petrizoff  alone  stands  between 
us  and  the  army.  Vitelkin,  the  next  in  power,  is  ready  to 
join  us.  But  he  is  suspected  already,  and  must  soon  re 
sign — or  be  poisoned.  If  we  remove  Petrizoff  now  thirty 
regiments  will  come  to  us  with  Vitelkin,  and  others  will  fol 
low  until  the  Czar  is  without  an  army.  In  a  month — a  fort 
night — the  revolutionists  will  be  masters  of  the  nation 

Adr.  Masters  of  the  nation !  [Walks  away,  and  returns, 
much  calmer,  to  Korelenko]  If  it  is  true  that  only  the  life 
of  Petrizoff  stands  between  the  revolutionists  and  triumph, 
he  can  not  long  be  the  sole  barrier.  He  must  see  his  folly 
and  change  his 

Kore.  [Furious]  Were  he  to  turn  angel  now,  he  should 
die  for  his  past  sins ! 

Adr.  [Sadly]  I  see.  We  should  unfetter  the  avenging 
lion,  not  loosen  the  dove  of  peace,  with  Petrizoff 's  death. 

Kore.  I  did  not  mean  that.  You  know  it  was  the  anger 
of  a  moment.  [Kneeling]  For  the  last  time  I  beg  you — 
in  the  name  of  all  that  redeems  man  from  the  beast 

Adr.  [Very  pale]  Rise,  Korelenko.  Heal  ye  first  your 
selves.  Out  of  your  differences,  your  divisions,  you  make 
your  master.  If  for  one  day  enmity  should  sleep,  if  for 
one  day  every  lover  of  freedom  should  love  his  neighbor, 
in  that  day  the  oppressor  would  fall.  Rise!  I  will  not  do  it. 

Kore.  [Springing  up]  You  will! 

Adr.  Will? 

Kore.  Yes.  The  princess  Sophie  Travinski  is  betrayed 
to  Petrizoff.  I  hoped  to  prevail  without  telling  you,  and 
spare  your  heart  what  mine  suffers. 


THE    SHEPHERD  189 

Adr.  Betrayed? 

Kore.  She  has  aided  to-night  in  the  escape  of  a  prisoner 
taken  by  Petrizoff's  order.  He  will  know  all  by  morning 
if  lie  lives. 

Adr.  This  lie  will  not  tempt  me,  Sasha.  I  can  hardly 
believe  you  have  uttered  it.  [Fearfully]  I  might  have 
believed  you. 

Kore.  I  am  prepared  for  your  doubt.  Gregorief  waits 
outside.  He  will  support  my  word  [going  to  door]. 

Adr.  No!  I  will  not  see  him  again.  It  is  true.  [Crosses 
uncertainly  and  sits  on  bench  before  loom]  O,  is  there  no 
end  to  this  night? 

Kore.  A  princess  Ghedimin  went  to  Yakutsk  for  a 
lesser  offence. 

Adr.  Don't — don't  speak. 

Kore.  [After  watching  him  a  moment]  If  Petrizoff  dies 
he  will  never  know. 

Adr.  There  is  no  time  to  warn  her. 

Kore.  Then  the  evidence  will  go  to  Petrizoff  at  once. 

Adr.  You  would  do  that? 

Kore.  No,  but  Gregorief  would.  He  is  waiting  for  your 
answer. 

Adr.  My  answer? 

Kore.  You  know  how  to  save  her. 

Adr.  [Rising]  How? 

Kore.  Join  us. 

Adr.  [Sinking  down  again]  You  might  be  merciful  now, 
Korelenko. 

Kore.  [Unbelievingly]  You  will  not  save  her? 

Adr.  Not  that  way. 

Kore.  There  is  no  other. 

Adr.  Then  she 

Kore.  Adrian,  I  can  not  believe  you.     You  will  save  her ! 

Adr.  How  can  I  now?  The  struggle  is  over.  For  a 
heavenly  motive  I  refused  to  join  you;  I  can  not  consent 


190  THE    SHEPHERD 

now  for  an  earthly  one.  O,  if  you  had  not  told  me!  If 
you  had  pleaded  a  little  longer —  [Realizes  what  he  is  say 
ing,  and  looks  at  Korclenko  with  a  bitter  smile]  You  see  it 
is  impossible. 

Kore.  [Raging]  I  will  kill  you! 

Adr.  Do,  Sasha. 

Korc.  [Turning  from  him]  Vera!     My  little  girl ! 

Adr.  [Rising  suddenly]  O,  I  have  not  told  you 

Kore.  What?     Quick! 

Adr.  Vera  is  free.     Read  this — where — Vasil,  the  letter ! 

[Vasil,  who  sits  by  the  small  table,  silently  lays  the  letter 
upon  it.  Korelenko  crosses  and  snatches  it  up] 

Adr.  [As  Korelenko  reads]  You  see  they  will  wait  for 
you  on  the  Petoff  road  until  two  o'clock.  You  must  go  at 
once.  The  princess  has  arranged  for  you  to  journey  with 
Vera  if  you  wish,  and  you  must  now,  for  to  remain  here 
means  imprisonment  on  the  Yaltowa  charge.  [Korelenko 
is  dumb,  looking  at  the  letter]  Don't  lose  hope,  Sasha. 
You  can  still  help  us  in  America — perhaps  do  more  for 
the  cause  there  than  here — and  you  will  have  Vera 

Kore.  [Strangely]  You  must  save  her  now,  Adrian. 

Adr.  She  is  saved.     Haven't  you  read?     Don't  you  see? 

Kore.  Not  Vera,  the  princess.  It  was  I  who  betrayed 
her.  And  it  was  Vera  she  saved.  I  was  so  sure  of  you. 
You  said 

Adr.  I  am  sorry  for  you,  Korelenko.  You  have  sold 
the  angel  in  your  service. 

Kore.  No!  You  did  it!  You  deceived  me!  You 
swore  you  loved  her! 

Adr.  I  swore  the  truth. 

Kore.  Bah!  Such  love!  Prove  it!  Prove  it!  [Hur 
ries  to  the  little  cabinet  in  wall,  rear,  unlocks  it,  takes  out  a 
bomb  from  his  pocket,  places  it  in  the  cabinet,  locks  the  door 
and  returns  to  Adrian  with  key]  Prove  it !  I  am  going  to 
Vera.  Gregorief  will  wait  at  Breshloff's.  Send  him  this 


THE    SHEPHERD  191 

key  within  an  hour  and  he  will  know  what  to  do.  [Offers 
key  to  Adrian,  who  looks  at  him  silently.  Korclenko 
throws  key  to  the  floor]  There  it  is !  Send  it,  or  her  fate 
will  be  on  your  soul,  not  mine!  [Exit] 

Adr.  O,  Infinite  Love,  why  didst  make  us  as  men  to  try 
us  as  gods?  .  .  .  And  I  might  have  saved  her.  Might? 
.  .  .  [Goes  slowly  to  the  AT?/,  stoops  and  picks  it  up.  As  he 
raises  his  Jiead  hi$  glance  falls  on  the  portrait  of  the  Saviour 
on  wall  in  front  of  him]  Unto  seventy  times  seven.  [He 
drops  the  key  and  takes  a  step  or  two  toward  the  picture] 
Thou  too  wert  man!  .  .  .  [As  he  gazes  at  the  portrait 
Vasil  comes  softly  forward,  takes  up  the  key,  returns  to 
table,  and  sits  looking  at  the  key  as  if  fascinated.  Curtain] 


.     ACT   III 

SCENE  1.  Same  room.     Vasil  asleep  on  bench,  rear,  left. 
Adrian  watching  by  him. 

Adr.  If  I  had  saved  him  this  day  .  .  .  this  night !  But 
now  .  .  .  what  peace  can  heal  him?  [Rises  and  walks] 
Lord,  Lord,  from  out  these  burning  days,  let  one,  just  one, 
go  free !  As  thou  lovest  thy  world,  let  him  be  spared,  let 
him  be  spared ! 

[Enter  Sophie,  street  door.  Adrian  looks  at  her  uncom- 
prehendingly.  She  crosses  to  him1 

Adr.  Why  have  you  come? 

Soph.  To  warn  you! 

Adr.  The  boy — do  not  wake  him. 

[Sophie  crosses  to  left,  rear,  Adrian  following.  She  looks 
down  at  Vasil,  stoops  and  tenderly  kisses  him,  then  moves 
away  with  Adrian.  Vasil  opens  his  eyes  and  looks  after  them] 

Adr.  The  last  two  hours  have  been  terrible,  but  he  rests 
now. 

Soph.  You  must  take  him  with  you. 

Adr.  With  me? 

Soph.  I  have  come  from  the  ball. 

Adr.  I  see. 

Soph.  Orloff  is  a  very  weak  man.  I  found  out  that 
you  are  to  be  arrested  to-night. 

Adr.  It  has  come  then. 

Soph.  Is  Korelenko  going  with  Vera? 

Adr.  I  hope  so.     He  has  gone  to  meet  her. 

192 


E     ^       X 

UNIVERSITY  ] 

THE    SHEPHERD  193 

Soph.  Then  you  can't  take  his  place.  We  must  think 
of  some  other  way — and  quickly. 

Adr.  Not  for  me.  It  is  you  who  must  go.  You  are 
betrayed  to  Petrizoff. 

Soph.  I  hoped  you  wouldn't  hear  that.  I  am  in  no 
danger. 

Adr.  [Between  fear  and  relief]  No  danger? 

Soph.  [With  a  half  smile]  By  and  by  you  will  believe 
that  I  can  take  care  of  myself. 

[Enter  Korelenko  with  Vera] 

Soph.  Not  gone? 

Adr.  You  are  lost. 

Soph.  Why  did  you  bring  her  back?  You  have  no  right 
to  destroy  her  life ! 

Vera.  I  would  not  go.  My  place  is  with  Alexander. 
[Softly]  You  ought  to  understand  that,  princess. 

Soph.  [To  Korelenko]  She  is  a  child.  She  did  not 
know.  You  should  have  gone  with  her. 

Kore.  Your  highness,  that  was  impossible. 

Soph.  It  was  not!     All  was  prepared 

Kore.  [To  Adrian]  Does  she  know? 

Soph.  That  I  am  betrayed?  Yes,  but  the  man  en 
trusted  with  the  evidence  happened  to  be  a  devoted  ser 
vant  of  my  own —  [Alexander  groans]  He  will  fall!  And 
you — Adrian — what  is  the  matter? 

Kore.  [Steadying  himself  against  the  loom  and  clasping 
Vera]  I  have  thrown  our  lives  away — mine  and  Vera's — 
that  is  all. 

Soph.  Why  couldn't  you  go  with  her? 

Kore.  Because  it  was  I  who  betrayed  you.  And  could 
I  accept  life  and  love  at  your  hands? 

Soph.  [Shri?iking]  You?     But  why 

Kore.  I  can  not  answer.  Come,  Vera,  to  your  grand 
mother. 

[Exeunt  Korelenko  and  Vera,  right,  centre] 


194  THE    SHEPHERD 

Soph.  O,  why  did  he  do  it? 

Adr.  I  can  tell  you. 

Soph.  Then  why? 

Adr.  Because  he  believed —  O,  Sophie,  beloved,  before 
I  speak,  look  at  me  with  the  love  in  your  eyes  as  I  saw 
it  first.  I  did  not  know  it  was  for  me  then.  Let  me  see 
it  now  while  I  know  you  are  mine — mine!  Yes,  yes,  you 
love  me! 

Soph.  Ah,  Adrian,  I  am  afraid  I  love  nothing  else. 

[Vasil  covers  his  eyes  with  his  arm] 

Adr.  And  you  will  kiss  me  once? 

Soph.  Once? 

Adr.  As  if  we  were  parting  forever,  Sophie.  [She  em 
braces  and  kisses  him.  He  moves  away  from  her]  Now  I 
will  tell  you  why  Alexander  could  not  answer  you,  and 
why  I  can.  He  betrayed  you  believing  that  I  could  and 
would  save  you. 

Soph.  And  you 

Adr.  Could,  but  would  not. 

Soph.  [Moving  back]  What  are  you  saying,  Adrian? 

Adr.  I  could  have  saved  you  but  I  would  not.  Isn't  it 
clear? 

Soph.  [Moving  back  till  she  stands  in  dim  light]  No — 
I  don't 

Adr.  I  would  not  consent  to  Petrizoff's  death. 

Soph.  [Lifting  her  head]  O!  [Regarding  him  steadily] 
You  refused  your  consent  when  you  knew  that  his  death 
would  save  me? 

Adr.  [Lowering  his  eyes]  I  did. 

Soph.  He,  a  murderer,  whose  death  has  been  justly  due 
a  thousand  times,  and  I,  innocent,  the  woman  you  say 
you  love 

Adr.  [Bowing  his  head,  not  meeting  her  look]  I  have 
told  you  the  truth. 

Soph.  And  that  is  why  we  part  forever? 


THE    SHEPHERD  195 

Adr.  That  is  why. 

Soph.  Because  I  could  not  forgive  you? 

Adr.  No.  I  should  want  more  than  forgiveness.  I 
should  want  you  to  understand. 

Soph.  That  you  were  right? 

Adr.  Yes. 

Soph.  And  I  couldn't  understand? 

Adr.  [Still  hopelessly,  not  looking  at  her}  No. 

Soph.  [Coming  nearer]  And  we  part  forever?  [He 
makes  no  answer.  She  comes  nearer]  Forever?  [He  is 
still  silent.  She  comes  near  enough  to  turn  his  face  to  hers] 
Forever,  Adrian? 

Adr.  Sophie!     [Takes  her  in  his  arms} 

Soph.  O,  do  you  think  I  will  ever  leave  you  now? 

Adr.  You  do  understand! 

Soph.  [Smiling]  That  I  can  never  be  in  your  way? 
You  will  always  sacrifice  me  first?  Yes,  I  knew  that  all 
the  time,  but  you  didn't. 

Adr.  And  it  makes  no  difference? 

Soph.  How  can  it  when  I  love  you  ? 

Adr.  I  wonder  if  God  understands  women. 

Soph.  O,  some  of  them.  The  rest  He  made  to  puzzle 
over  when  eternity  hangs  on  His  hands. 

Adr.  [Kissing  her]  Heaven-heart! 

Soph.  [Releasing  herself]  That  must  wait.  We  haven't 
a  minute 

[They  hear  steps  outside,  and  stand  waiting.  Orloff  and 
two  guards  enter] 

Orl.  It  is  my  turn  to  be  surprised,  your  highness.  I 
suppose  you  are  here  to  assure  this  prisoner  of  safety. 

Soph.  What  prisoner? 

Orl.  Adrian  Lavrov. 

[Guards  put  fetters  on  Adrian's  wrists] 

Adr.  For  what  crime  am  I  arrested? 

Orl.  [To  guards]  Keep  him  here  until  I  return. 


196  THE    SHEPHERD 

Adr.  For  what  crime? 

Orl.  For  crime  sufficient. 

Adr.  I  insist  upon  knowing. 

Orl.  You  will  know  soon  enough — in  the  next  world. 
They  say  everything  is  known  there. 

Soph.  He  is  ashamed  to  tell  you.  You  are  arrested  as 
chief  instigator  in  the  burning  of  Yaltowa. 

Adr.  Is  it  possible? 

Soph.  More  than  possible.  It  is  so.  That  is  the  crime 
you  will  die  for  unless  you  are  rescued  by  a  rising  of  the 
people. 

Adr.  That  must  not  be! 

Orl.  Don't  worry.  We  are  giving  your  friends  enough 
to  think  about. 

[Sophie  has  gradually  neared  the  door.  Orloff  steps  be 
fore  her] 

Orl.  Pardon  me,  your  highness.  You  invited  me  into 
your  carriage  a  few  hours  ago.  I  beg  to  return  the  cour 
tesy. 

Soph.  Let  me  pass! 

Orl.  You  will  leave  here  only  under  my  escort. 

Soph.  I  know  where  I  shall  die  then. 

Orl.  You  have  cost  me  one  prisoner. 

Soph.  What  proof  have  you? 

Orl.  None — yet.     But  I  know  it. 

Soph.  O  wonderful  sagacity! 

Orl.  And  I  shall  lay  my  reasons  before  Petrizoff. 

Soph.  I  suppose  you  believe,  too,  that  I  would  rescue 
the  Shepherd  of  Lonz? 

Orl.  I  shall  at  least  not  lose  sight  of  him  until  he  is  in 
prison.  [Sophie  turns  her  back  upon  Orloff]  You  must 
come  with  me  or  stay  here  under  guard.  I  don't  promise 
you  as  pleasant  a  journey  as  you  gave  me,  for  I  shall  not 
be  at  so  much  trouble  to  please.  I  shall  not  even  ask  you 
to  let  me  repeat  the  little  kiss 


THE    SHEPHERD  197 

Soph.  Sir! 

Orl.  On  your  hand,  which  you  so  kindly  permitted. 
[Sophie  again  attempts  to  pass  him]  ^Yill  your  highness 
take  my  arm  to  the  carriage?  We  have  only  a  short  dis 
tance  to  drive  before  meeting  Petrizoff.  [Looking  at  his 
icatch]  He  ought  to  be  almost  here. 

Soph.  I  will  stay  here. 

Orl.  In  shackles? 

Soph.  [Holding  out  her  arms]  Yes. 

Orl.  Stay  then.     But  I  will  not  bind  you. 

Soph.  No,  I  might  not  forgive  you  that  if  it  turns  out 
that  you  have  made  a  fool's  mistake. 

Orl.  There  is  no  mistake,  as  you  will  learn  after  I  have 
seen  Petrizoff.  [To  guards]  No  conversation  between 
prisoners.  [To  Sophie]  Let  me  assure  you  that  these 
guards  can  be  trusted.  [Exit] 

[Adrian  sits  in  the  large  chair,  a  guard  stationed  on  each 
side  of  him.  Sophie  sits  on  law  stool  before  him,  and  lays 
her  head  upon  his  knees] 

A  guard.  [Anxiously]  It  is  not  permitted  to  commu 
nicate 

Soph.  Then  don't,  sir! 

[Silence  for  a  moment,  then  the  noise  of  horses  approaching] 

Soph.  Ah— Petrizoff! 

[Vasil  rises  cautiously.  The  guards  have  their  backs 
io  him  and  the  door.  He  stands  on  the  bench,  unlocks  cab 
inet,  takes  out  the  bomb,  puts  it  under  his  blouse,  and  goes 
softly  out] 

Adr.  Sophie — Sophie — you  do  not  regret 

Soph.  No,  no!  Don't,  Adrian!  Forget  all  but  love — 
love — love !  This  is  the  last — the  last 

[Sound  of  trampling  irithout,  shrieks  and  noises.  They 
start  and  listen.  Korelenko  runs  through  the  room  from 
right  and  out  at  street  door.  Vera  comes  on  after  him. 
Adrian  and  Sophie  rise  and  look  questioningly  at  each 


198  THE    SHEPHERD 

other.  The  guards  lift  their  weapons.  Adrian  looks  to 
ward  bench  and  sees  that  Vasil  is  gone] 

Adr.  Vasil!     [To  Vera]     Is  he  in  there? 

Vera.  No,  Adrian. 

Adr.  He  has  gone  out.  He  will  be  hurt.  [Looks 
suddenly  at  cabinet,  which  is  open]  Who  has  been 
here?  Gregorief?  [Stares  at  cabinet.  Sophie's  gaze 
follows  his.  He  turns  to  her,  speaking  slowly]  There 
was  a  bomb  in  that  cabinet.  Could  it  be  possible — 
that 

Soph.  [Gently]  I  am  afraid  it  is  true. 

Adr.  Never!     Not  him! 

Soph.  Adrian!     Beloved! 

Adr.  [Not  heeding  her]  Vasil!  Vasil!  [Staggers  to 
seat  by  table,  front,  left.  Guards  keep  by  him.  Enter 
Korelenko  followed  by  Gregorief  and  others] 

Vera.  [Running  to  Korelenko]  Vasil — where  is  he? 

[Korelenko  is  silent] 

Soph.  Is  he  hurt? 

Kore.  The  boy — or 

Soph.  The  boy. 

Kore.  Not  hurt,  but  taken. 

[Adrian  throws  his  fettered  arms  upon  the  table  and  lays 
his  face  upon  them] 

Soph.  Is  Petrizoff  dead? 

Kore.  Only  a  wound.  This  night  belongs  to  hell.  O, 
if  it  could  have  been  as  we  planned! 

Soph.  No  one  is  killed? 

Kore.  No  one  but  Orloff. 

Soph.  Orloff  dead!  [Under  her  breath]  Then  I  am 
safe. 

Kore.  Gods,  if  only  it  had  been  Petrizoff !  His  escape 
is  unbelievable.  [Turning  to  Adrian]  What  says  the 
preacher  now? 


THE    SHEPHERD  199 

Soph.  Don't!     See  his  fetters? 

Rare.  Ah!     When 

Greg.  [Crossing  to  Adrian}  Fortunate  man!  Now  he 
may  develop  his  soul ! 

Soph.  How  can  you? 

Greg.  How  could  lie,  madam?  How  could  he?  Do 
you  know  what  he  has  done?  He  has  killed  every  man 
that  died  in  Yaltowa  to-night — he  has  slaughtered  every 
child — he  has  outraged  every  woman !  What  else?  Free 
dom  offered  him  her  hand  and  he  struck  her  to  earth! 
He  has  scattered  her  forces — he  has  strengthened  her 
oppressor — and  the  rivers  of  blood  that  must  now  drench 
Russia  shall  flow  from  his  door!  But — ha!  ha!  he  has 
saved  his  soul! 

[Enter  Irtenieff,  attended] 

Irtenieff.  I  want  the  prisoner,  Adrian  Lavrov.  [JVo  one 
answers.  He  sees  Adrian  and  crosses  to  him]  What  is 
your  crime?  [Adrian  does  not  raise  hu  head] 

Soph.  None. 

Irten.  You  are  arrested  for  the  burning  of  Yaltowa? 
All  prisoners  taken  on  that  charge  are  free  by  the  order 
of  Petrizoff. 

Soph.  Take  off  his  chains! 

[At  a  sign  from  Irtenieff  guards  unfetter  Adrian,  who 
does  not  seem  to  knoiv  what  they  are  doing] 

Kore.  Such  an  order  from  Petrizoff?  What  does  it 
mean  ? 

Irten.  It  means  that  he  is  frightened  into  saying  his 
prayers  for  a  day  or  two. 

Soph.  Adrian,  my  dear  one,  look  up! 

Irten.  [To  Korelenko}  And  if  you've  a  particular  regard, 
as  I've  heard,  for  the  little  beauty  there,  you'd  better  get 
her  out  of  Russia  before  his  scare  rubs  off. 

Kore.  Thank  you,  sir. 


200  THE    SHEPHERD 

[Exeunt  Irtenieff,  men,  and  guards  left  by  Orloff.  Dawn 
has  been  gradually  breaking,  showing  through  door  and 
window,  rear.  Sophie  continues  to  talk  softly  to  Adrian 
and  finally  he  raises  his  head] 

Adr.  They  will  bury  the  sunshine  of  the  world — shut  up 
liis  golden  years  in  darkness 

Soph.  We  will  free  him,  Adrian.  We  will  live  to  set 
him  free. 

[Zarkoff,  and  Vasil  guarded,  appear  at  door] 

Zarkoff.  [Stepping  in]  Now  show  your  accomplices. 
[Vasil  stands  on  the  threshold,  silent,  looking  eagerly  at 
the  faces  in  the  room]  You  swore  you  would  tell  who 
helped  you  if  we  brought  you  here. 

Vasil.  I  will. 

Zar.  [Pointing  to  Gregorief]  Is  he  one? 

Vasil.  Let  me  take  my  time.  You  wouldn't  hurry 
on  your  way  to  Schlusselburg,  would  you?  I  must 
speak  to  my  friends  first.  Adrian — father,  brother, 
master — the  songs  have  all  come  back.  When  I  only 
looked  on,  doing  nothing  to  help,  the  music  stopped,  but 
now 

Zar.  Too  many  words,  sir! 

Vasil.  Now  I  am  doing  my  part,  I  have  a  right  to  my 
song.  They  will  take  me  to 

Zar.  Stop  that! 

Vasil.  And  under  the  stormy  waters  my  heart  will  be 
singing 

Zar.  Say  your  good-bys,  and  be  done ! 

Vasil.  Put  your  ear  to  my  violin,  and  you  will  hear 

Zar.  Come! 

Vasil.  You  must  yield  something  too,  Adrian.  Step 
back  to  the  law  of  Moses  for  vantage  if  you  can  leap  to 
Christ  with  the  world  in  your  arms. 

Zar.  You  have  broken  your  oath! 

Vasil.  I  have  not.     I  will  tell  you. 


THE    SHEPHERD  201 

Zar.  Speak  then.     Who  are  your  confederates? 

Vasil.  There  is  but  one. 

Zar.  Who?     Where  is  he? 

Vasil.  He  is  here — in  this  room — he  is  hi  every  prison 
in  Russia — he  is  in  every  heart  that  knows  the  meaning  of 
love — but  if  you  want  to  arrest  him  [stepping  back  into  the 
sunlight  and  pointing  upward]  you  must  go  up  there,  for 
he  is  God. 

Zar.  That  for  your  blasphemy!  [Strikes  Vasil  on  the 
mouth  with  his  sword]  Off  with  him! 

[Guards  take  Vasil  off.  Zarkoff  follows.  Silence  broken 
by  a  groan  from  Adrian] 

Soph.  Beloved,  beloved,  he  shall  be  free!  The  whole 
world  shall  help  us! 

Greg.  May  we  knock  down  the  prisons  now,  Lavrov? 

Adr.  O  God,  in  all  thy  ages  can  this  be  justified? 

Kore.  You  can  justify  it  in  a  moment.  Adrian  Lavrov, 
this  is  your  call  to  war.  If  you  respond,  his  life  is  well 
lost. 

Adr.  War?  [Staggers  up]  Yes.  And  I  will  use  the 
strongest  of  earthly  weapons,  the  arms  of  peace.  The 
powers  that  upbuild  are  as  invincible  as  the  universe. 
By  them  it  stands.  Only  by  their  toleration  do  the  forces 
of  destruction  live.  Toleration?  Only  by  the  support  of 
the  powers  of  peace  do  the  powers  that  destroy  exist.  Is 
not  the  army  of  the  Czar  fed  by  us,  clothed  by  us,  paid  by 
us?  And  if  we  refuse  to  give,  must  it  not  beg  of  us?  If 
he  who  works  not  shall  not  eat,  what  is  the  doom  of  the 
destroyer?  The  sower  shall  not  sow  for  him,  the  reaper 
shall  not  reap  for  him,  the  builder  shall  not  build  for  him, 
the  physician  shall  not  heal  him,  the  scholar  shall  not 
teach  him,  the  lawyer  shall  not  plead  for  liim,  no  trade 
shall  supply  him,  no  craft  shall  assist  him,  no  art  shall 
amuse  him.  The  mills  shall  be  silent,  the  wheels  shall 
not  turn,  the  wires  shall  be  dumb,  until  he  cries  out 


202  THE    SHEPHERD 

"Peace,  thou  art  master:  let  me  be  so  much  as  thy 
servant!" 

A  revolutionist.  Right!     This,  too,  is  war! 

Adr.  Yes.  The  new  war  of  a  new  day.  Not  in  mad 
ness  hurling  bombs,  but  giving  our  pity  as  we  take  our 
right. 

Man.  And  who  will  pay  your  soldiers  of  peace?  Must 
not  their  women  and  children  eat? 

Adr.  The  money  we  now  pay  to  our  brothers  to  strike 
us  shall  put  bread  in  our  mouths. 

A  revolutionist.  Keep  the  taxes ! 

Man.  You  join  us  at  last! 

Adr.  No.  We  join  each  other  .  .  .  under  the  only 
unconquerable  power.  Gather  an  army  and  go  forth 
with  guns,  and  you  may  be  laid  in  the  dust.  But  the 
gathered  forces  of  peace  are  as  the  fingers  on  God's 
hand,  one  with  His  strength,  one  with  His  will.  Friends, 
friends,  we  have  been  searching  earth  for  the  weapon 
already  in  our  grasp.  The  woman  at  the  loom,  the 
mujik  in  the  field,  the  workman  on  the  housetop,  the 
man  at  the  wire,  the  throttle,  the  wheel,  hold  it  in 
their  hands.  To  know  its  might — to  use  it  together — that 
is  all.  Together!  O,  they  must  see  it — as  I  do  now!  I 
will  gather  my  disciples,  we  will  knock  at  every  door  and 
preach  the  gospel  of  united  peace  until  all  our  unions  are 
one  union,  all  our  bodies  one  body,  with  one  breath,  one 
heart,  one  head.  In  barin  and  peasant,  mechanic  and 
noble,  Christian  and  Jew,  Finn,  Pole,  Czech,  Serb,  Geor 
gian,  Tatar,  must  be  born  as  in  one  man  the  conscious 
strength  of  peace.  And  to  its  deliverance  I  give  my  life, 
my  soul!  [Sits  down.  Sophie  leans  over  him]  .  .  .  Yes 
...  he  shall  be  free. 

Greg.  [Who  has  been  searching  VasiVs  violin,  comes 
forward  with  a  paper  in  his  hand}  They  shall  all  be  free ! 


THE    SHEPHERD  203 

We  will  make  no  terms,  we  will  accept  no  constitution,  till 
every  dungeon  door  be  open,  till  we  hold  in  our  arms  the 
brothers  who  have  made  freedom  no  longer  a  dream  of 
the  night  but  a  song  of  the  morning !  To  them  we  owe  the 
liberty  that  is  dawning,  and  shall  we  tread  the  earth  they 
give  us  while  they  perish  beneath  it?  Hear  our  latest 
martyr — the  youngest  of  us  all.  Hear  the  "Voice  of 
Schlusselburg ! " 
[Read*] 

We  are  deep,  we  are  deep 

Beneath  your  swift  feet 
That  pass  and  yet  pass 

With  unfaltering  beat; 
But  life  has  no  sound 

That  can  deaden  our  moans, 
And  no  measure  of  ground 

Can  bury  our  bones, 

Can  bury  our  bones. 

We  have  given  ye  all 

But  our  lingering  breath, — 
The  light  from  our  eyes, 

The  prayer  at  our  death. 
The  wine  of  the  days, 

Drink  it  up,  drink  it  up! 
But  our  hearts,  as  the  grape, 

We  pressed  for  the  cup, 

We  pressed  for  the  cup. 

Through  the  measureless  sun 

Your  seasons  shall  sway. 
Pluck  the  fruit  as  your  own, 

Ye  have  nothing  to  pay; 


204  THE    SHEPHERD 

For  your  summers  of  bloom 
Are  the  summers  we've  lost, 

And  we  in  our  tomb, 
We  pay  the  red  cost, 
We  pay  the  red  cost. 

Your  youths  shall  be  wed 
And  the  maids  shall  be  fair, 

But  the  tears  we  have  shed 
Are  the  pearls  they  shall  wear; 

Your  bride  ye  shall  seek 
As  never  we  could, 

But  the  rose  on  her  cheek, 
It  is  dyed  with  our  blood, 
It  is  dyed  with  our  blood. 

The  lips  of  your  child 

Shall  be  warm  on  your  own, 

But  'tis  cold,  it  is  cold, 
Where  our  babes  lie  alone. 

The  hand  of  your  friend 
In  yours  ye  shall  take, 

But  look  ye! — the  scar 
Ours  wear  for  his  sake, 
Ours  wear  for  his  sake. 

The  feast  shall  be  spread 

And  the  world  shall  be  there, 

But  set  at  the  head 
Our  invisible  chair. 

Ay,  the  banquet  is  ours, 
For  our  dishes  make  room! 

Each  baked  by  the  fires 
Of  a  smouldering  home, 
Of  a  smouldering  home. 


THE    SHEPHERD  205 

We  are  deep,  we  are  deep 

Beneath  your  swift  feet 
That  pass  and  yet  pass 

With  unfaltering  beat; 
But  life  has  no  sound 

That  can  deaden  our  moans, 
And  no  measure  of  ground 

Can  bury  our  bones, 

Can  bury  our  bones. 


[Curtain] 


THE    SIEGE 

A  DRAMA  IN  FIVE  ACTS 


CHARACTERS    OF    THE    PLAY 

DIONYSIUS,  the  Younger,  tyrant  of  Syracuse 
DION,  a  Syracusan  noble 
ARISTOCLES,  the  Athenian  friend  of  Dion 
OCRASTES,  a  young  lord,  attached  to  Dion 
HERACLIDES,  admiral  of  Syracuse 
PHILLISTUS,  an  ambitious  courtier 
CALLORUS,  .EGISTHUS,  friends  of  Heraclides 
SPEUSIPPUS,  from  Athens,  friend  of  Aristocks 
PAN  THUS,  captain  of  Dion's  Grecian  guards 
DOMENES,  captain  of  the  tyrant's  guards 
TIMOLEON,  ASCANDER,  lords  of  Syracuse 
GYLIPPUS,  MENODES,  DRAGON,  citizens 
BRENTIO,  slave  to  Dion 
TICHUS,  slave  to  Aristocks 

ARATEA,  wife  of  Dion 
NAURESTA,  a  noble  lady 
THEANO,  daughter  of  Nauresta 
METHONE,  woman  to  Nauresta 

Soldiers,  citizens,  messengers,  dancers,  <tc. 

SCENE:  Syracuse,  Sicily 
TIME:  356  B.  C. 


ACT  I 

SCENE  1.  A  pavilion  in  vineyard  near  Dion's  house. 
Enter  Dion  and  Aristocles,  followed  by  Brentio  and 
Tichu*. 

Dion.  That  Dionysius  bends  the  neck  of  pomp 
To  do  you  honor,  shows  an  eye  yet  false 
To  your  true  merit. 

Aris.  But  'tis  better,  Dion, 

Than  to  have  found  his  frowning  archers  planted 
Point  to  our  landing  ship. 

Dion.  He'd  not  have  dared 

To  greet  you  so,  but  this  vain,  strutting  show 
Wrongs  you  no  less. 

Aris.  Himself  far  more. 

Dion.  Ay,  friend. 

The  mines  of  earth  into  one  coffer  poured 
Would  not  enrich  a  spendthrift  or  insure 
Him  linen  for  a  shroud.     If  you  can  not 
Prevail  with  him —     If?     Nay,  you  will.     All  ifs 
Lie  down  before  your  wooing  argument. 

Aris.  I  knew  his  father  when  the  years  had  stripped 
His  agued  soul,  and  his  untutored  age 
Looked  from  a  crabbed  eye  upon  the  world. 
For  him  I  would  not  have  a  second  time 
Foregone  Athenian  groves,  but  youth  that  keeps 
An  open  door  to  Wisdom  as  to  Folly, 
May  even  of  Virtue  make  at  last  a  guest. 

209 


210  THE    SIEGE 

Dion.  My  hope  is  born  again,  now  you  are  here. 
When  I  have  seen  pick-thank  philosophers 
At  ear  of  Dionysius,  seeding  his  mind — 
Wherein  my  toil  had  set  fair  Ceres'  garden — 
With  foul  and  flaunting  weeds  to  overrun 
My  country,  I  have  been  tempted  to  forego 
The  idle  reaping,  uplay  the  soil  itself, 
And  with  some  few  arid  trusted  followers 
Rouse  a  new  Spring  to  breed  us  gracious  harvest. 

Aris.  But  he  who  strikes  at  heritage  gives  riot 
Fair  leave  to  play  above  his  trampled  grave, 
And  rather  than  usurp  a  wrong  with  right, 
You  bend  your  strength  to  make  the  wrong  a  virtue. 

Dion.  Ay,  so  the  young  tyrant  has  my  knee,  but  thus 
To  keep  my  mind  at  bow  and  flexure  proves 
My  patience  'fore  the  gods.     Welcome  the  day 
When  I  may  honor  Truth  in  honoring 
The  head  of  rule  in  my  beloved  city! 
But  now  no  more  of  state  austerities; 
I  would  be  glad  one  hour  and  nurse  the  joy 
Of  seeing  thee.     Thou'st  brought  me  half  my  heart 
That  kept  with  thee  in  Athens. 

[Enter  Brentio] 
Well? 

Bren.  My  lord, 

The  mistress  comes. 

Dion.  In  happy  season. 

Aris.  Mistress? 

Dion.  My  wife. 

Aris.  Art  married,  Dion? 

Dion.  Since  you  sailed; 

To  Aratea,  Dionysius'  sister, 
But  as  unlike  him  as  the  eternal  sky 
To  moody  ocean. 

Aris.  Married?     That  the  word? 


THE    SIEGE  211 

Dion.  Fast  bound,  indeed,  to  one  who  will  not  break 
Our  souls'  knit  circle.     She  is  Virtue's  servant, 
And  wears  her  fairest  flower,  beauty. 

Tick.  [Aside,   as  Dion  looks  off  left  to  see  if  Aratea 
approaches]  Ha ! 

A  beauty!     I  will  warrant  it.     There  be 
Some  ugly  wives  i'  the  world  but  no  man  married  'em. 

Dion.  [To  Brentio]  Come,  sir.     What  entertainment  is 

provided? 
[Dion  talks  aside  with  slave] 

Aris.  So  goes  my  friend.     He  who  was  happiest  lost 
In  the  vast  solitude  of  a  noble  book, 
Or  Truth's  deep-pathed  discourse.     A  wife.     Is  this 
My  journey's  end?     That  little  haven  whence 
No  harbored  sail  dares  sea?     Port  of  delay, 
And  pocket  of  emprise,  whose  shallows  oft 
Have  sunk  the  mightiest  hope  of  greatest  states ! 
[Enter  a  servant] 

Ser.  [To  Dion]  My  lord,   the   captain   of  the   harbor 
waits. 

Dion.  [To  Aristocles]  One  moment,  friend. 

[Exit,  right] 

Aris.  That  lordly  soul  a-dream 

In  woman's  arms!     That  heaven  -cleaving  mind 
At  fireside  tattle  with  a  gossip  dame ! 
Now  comes  the  sunward  ranging  eagle  down 
To  sit  by  nest,  a  tame  prudential  spouse. 
Where  sped  the  proud  ambassador  of  morn 
On  wings  that  clipped  the  burning  orient, 
Hovers  the  cautious  mate  at  pains  to  find 
A  youngling's  breakfast. 

[Re-enter  Dion] 

Dion.  Come,  my  friend.     You're  skilled 

In  harbor  matters,  and  I  need  your  word. 

[Exeunt  Dion  and  Aristoclcs,  right] 


212  THE    SIEGE 

Bren.  Is  your  wise  man  married? 

Tick.  That's  a  fool's  question. 

Bren.  True,  but —  Peace !  Yonder  comes  the  mistress. 
I  must  be  off.  "Entertainment,"  quoth  my  lord.  Which 
means  a  gentle  sally  of  honest  nymphs,  and  a  sort  of  mild, 
virtuous  music  at  hide-and-seek  in  the  vineyard.  You 
must  to  court  if  you  would  know  how  wenches  can  trip 
in  Sicily.  Come,  brother  stranger.  I'll  take  care  o' 
your  enjoyments.  You  shall  see  us  with  both  eyes,  I 
promise  you. 

[Exeunt  Brentio  and  Tichus.    Enter,  left,  Aratea,  Theano, 
Nauresta,  Ocrastes  and  Phillistus] 

Ara.  I'm  not  convinced,  Phillistus.     Who  may  search 
The  wreckage  'neath  a  smile,  or  count  the  tears 
Deep  in  a  stoic  eye?    Let  us  believe 
Aristocles  is  not  in  nature  cold 
As  his  philosophy. 

Oc.  I'll  freeze  my  sword 

A  winter  night,  then  warm  his  heart  by  't.     Cold! 

The.  You've  seen  him? 

Oc.  At  the  landing. 

The.  Now  we  hear! 

What  is  this  marvel  like? 

Oc.  A  frozen  god. 

Apollo  cast  in  snow. 

Phil.  Sicilian  suns 

Are  warm. 

Oc.  He's  proof  'gainst  sun.     Why,  he  doth  cool 
His  liver  with  his  blood, — hath  not  a  stir 
Of  whetted  sense,  be  't  anger,  love  or  pain, 
To  prick  him  mortal. 

Ara.  He  is  young  to  be 

So  true  a  sage. 

The.  They  come.     Prepare,  O  eyes, 

To  wonder! 


THE    SIEGE  213 

[Re-enter  Dion  and  Aristocles] 

Ara.  [Advancing]  Welcome,  noble  Athenian. 
Your  fame  has  oft  made  voyage  to  our  shore, 
And  we  rejoice  that  now  you  follow  it. 
Please  know  my  friends. 

Dion.  [To  Aratea,  as  Aristocles  greets  the  others] 

Why  is  Phillistus  here? 
Are  we  so  poor,  my  dame,  the  enemy 
Must  sauce  our  feast?     Nay,  nay! 

Ara.  I  hope,  my  lord, 

My  brother's  subjects  are  not  enemies. 

Phil.  [WJw  has  stood  apart,  approaches  Aristocles]  Wel 
come  to  Sicily,  although  your  breath  is  somewhat  frosty 
for  our  warmer  pleasures. 

Ara.  [As  Dion  frmcns]  The  frost  that  draws  the  poison, 
saves  the  flower,  you  mean,  my  good  Phillistus. 

Aris.  A  fair  interpreter! 

Phil.  Ay,  when  we  know  not  our  meaning,  let  a  woman 
find  it. 

Oc.  Which  she  will  do  the  more  readily  if  we  mean 
nothing. 

The.  True,  her  wit  is  generous.  She'll  always  bait  a 
hook  that  angles  painfully. 

Oc.  Though  she,  good  soul,  must  hang  herself  upon  it. 

[Thean-o  and    Ocrastes  move  aside,  bantering.     Aratea 
turns  to  Phillistus  and  Nauresta] 

Dion.  [To  Aristocles]    Ocrastes  is  a  youth  full  dear  to  me. 
Orphaned  at  birth,  I've  bred  him  from  a  babe. 
He  is  of  bravest  heart,  and  must  leap  high 
Although  he  fall  o'er  heaven. 

Aris.  And  the  maid? 

Dion.  The  daughter  of  my  brother  some  years  dead. 
Her  bloom  might  make  e'en  priestly  blood  forget 
To  pace  with  vows,  but  she  is  true,  and  kneels 
To  wisdom's  star.     Hast  yet  no  eye  for  woman? 


THE    SIEGE 

Aris.  For  all  things  fair.     That  is  my  staff  'gainst  age. 
We're  young  so  long  as  we  love  beauty. 

[Aratea  moves  to  Dion  and  Aristocles,  leaving  Nauresta 
and  Phillistus  together] 

Nau.  See 

This  feathered  snuggery? 

Phil.  A  vine-lark's  nest. 

Nau.  Touch  't  not.     We'll  lose  a  song  by  you.     'Tis 

strange 

These  dare-wings  build  about  our  heads,  when  they 
So  fear  us. 

Phil.     Farther.     Birds  are  not  my  study. 
[They  move  aside] 

Nau.  Frowning  again,  my  lord? 

Phil.  And  reason  for  it. 

I  like  not  yonder  pairing. 

[Looks  at  Theano  and  Ocrastes] 

Nau.  Would  that  your  plans 

Might  leave  them  happy! 

Phil.  False?     I'll  not  believe  it 

Of  thee,  Nauresta.     I've  given  thee  confidence 
As  open  as  the  ungated  dawn;   unlocked 
My  secrets;  fixed  within  your  breast,  as  in 
My  own,  my  darling  purpose! 

Nau.  'Twas  my  counsel 

In  Aratea 's  ear  that  brought  you  hither. 
And  why  these  dark  reproaches  where  I  hoped 
To  see  the  color  of  your  gratitude? 

Phil.  What's  done,  though  ne'er  so  well,  but  makes 

a  way 
For  what's  to  do,  Nauresta. 

Nau.  Ah,  my  lord, 

I  know  not  how  to  please  you. 

Phil.  Learn.     To  me 


THE    SIEGE  215 

Be  wax,  and  adamant  to  all  touch  else. 
Mad  Dionysius  is  in  revels  lost; 
Dion  is  far  too  stern  for  common  love ; 
Between  the  two  my  hope  makes  fair  ascent 
Above  the  clouds  of  state.     'Tis  I  must  reign. 
Then  we,  my  queen,  must  see  our  daughter  wed 
To  some  strong  noble  who  will  prop  our  power. 
Ocrastes'  love  is  bound  inseverably 
To  Dion.     Keep  him  from  Theano,  sweet. 
Look  on  them  now.     See  how  she  bends  to  him? 

Nau.  Nay,  she  is  modest,  sir. 

Phil.  But  mark!    He  speaks, 

And  crimson  runs  her  cheek,  as  though  his  voice 
Did  paint  it  magically,  which  bids  him  fair, 
For  know  you  not  that  love  on  blushes  feeds 
As  plundering  bees  on  roses?     He  is  sure! 
'Twill  task  you  hard  to  ward  from  port  who  bears 
So  bold  a  sail. 

Nau.  But  I  will  do  it.     Ay! 

Phil.  Again   you    are    all    mine!     [Nauresta   moves   to 
Theano  and  Ocrastes]  Thus  do  I  WTOO 

The  mother,  with  the  daughter  in  my  eye. 

Ara.  [To  Aristocles]  Ah,  yes,  I  know  you'll  cast  fond 

sighs  toward  Athens, 

And  in  the  night  look  through  the  dark  to  her — 
A  myrtle-crowned  bride  without  her  lord — 
But  yet  our  land,  too  poor  in  Ceres'  smile 
To  out  woo  Academe,  may  show  some  charm 
To  ease  your  banishment. 

Aris.  O,  'tis  an  isle 

That  'neath  the  eye  of  Zeus  might  bloom  nor  blush 
Save  at  his  praise;  yet  holds  within  itself 
Treasure  that  ornaments  its  cruder  worth 
As  gems  make  eyes  in  stone, — a  friend  whose  hand 


216  THE    SIEGE 

Leads  Virtue's  own,  and  woman's  beauty  crowned 
By  starry  mind  as  I  ne'er  hoped  to  see 
Till  at  the  port  of  the  immortal  world 
My  eyes  should  meet  my  dreams. 

Dion.  What  now?    So  soon, 

Aristocles? 

Ara.       My  lord? 

Dion.  I  knew  she'd  find 

The  gate  to  your  forgiveness. 

Phil.  [Aside]  My  tongue  creaks 
Amid  this  piping. 

Dion.  True,  she's  fair  enough 

For  praise,  but  I'm  a  plain  prose  lover,  friend, 
Nor,  like  a  doting  osier  o'er  a  brook, 
Pore  on  her  features,  wasting  oil  of  time 
That  should  burn  high  in  task  of  gods  and  state. 

Phil.  [Aside]  I'll  cast  a  pebble  in  this  summer  pool. 
[To  Aristocles]  Sir,  you  will  find  our  Dionysius  worthy, 
The  proud  descendant  of  a  prouder  sire, 
Upholding  well  his  shining  heritage. 

Aris.  Worthy  I  hope  he  is,  but  even  kings, 
My  lord,  may  wrap  them  in  humility, 
Nor  boast  descent,  when  demigods  of  earth 
But  bastards  are  in  heaven. 

Dion.  Ay,  some  of  us 

Should  curvet  not  so  high,  bethinking  of 
Our  audience  in  the  clouds ;  for  this  brave  world 
Is  but  a  theatre  whereto  the  gods 
For  pastime  look,  and  whoso  makes  most  show 
Of  plumes  careering  and  proud-lifting  stride 
Is  but  the  greatest  anticker  of  all 
To  their  high  eyes.     A  little  music,  friends. 

Phil.  And  in  good  time!     A  sermon  then  a  song. 

[Enter  dancers,  the  two  in  advance  bearing  urns  which 
they  place  on  a  small  altar,  singing] 


THE    SIEGE  217 

Bring  cedar  dark, 

And  ruby- wood, 
Bring  honeyed-bark, 

The  Naiad's  food, 
Till  altar  flame 

And  incense  rise 
In  friendship's  name 

To  seek  the  skies. 

[Chorus  by  maidens  bearing  wreaths  of  olive  and  laurel] 

Myrtle  leave  on  Venus'  tree, 
Nor  the  Bacchic  ivy  see; 
Olive  bring,  and  laurel  bough, 
And  may  hours  that  gather  now 
Of  his  years  fair  token  be! 

[They  bow  before  Aristodes  and  continue  dancing] 

Aris.  [Watching  Aratea]  The  sun  has  made  a  shrine  of 

her  bright  hair 

Where  eyes  would  worship,  but  her  fairer  face 
Lures  their  devotion  ere  they  gaze  one  prayer. 

Phil.   [Crossing  to  Aristodes]   Aristocles,   I   swear  yon 

dancer's  foot, 

Curving  the  air,  marks  beauty  of  more  worth 
Than  all  the  fantasies  of  dream  you  write 
On  heavens  conjectural. 

Dion.  [Angrily  to  Phillistus]  It  suits  you  well 
To  treat  the  theme  deific  with  bold  tongue. 
No  thought  so  high  but  you  would  trick  it  out 
In  shrugging  sophistry! 

Phil.  [Going]  Farewell.     The  court 
Has  always  wrelcome  for  me. 

Dion.  Farewell,  my  lord. 

And  Ceres  send  you  grace! 


218  THE    SIEGE 

Phil.  [Turning]  Beware,  proud  Dion! 
The  topmost  limb  makes  an  uneasy  seat. 
Who  perches  there  must  take  account  of  winds, 
Lest  dignity  go  forfeit  to  surprise. 
By  Jaso,  sir,  your  cause  is  fallen  sick, 
Nor  Athens  emptying  all  her  wits  may  heal  it! 

[Exit] 

Ara.  My  lord,  a  little  patience 

Dion.  Patience,  madam! 

Would  words  were  meat  for  swords !     I'd  had  his  crop ! 
[Enter  a  royal  messenger] 

Mess.  Most  noble  Dion,  greeting  from  the  king. 
He  begs  you'll  bring  the  Athenian  sage  to  banquet, 
And  see  some  shows  within  the  royal  gardens. 

Dion.  More  revels!     More?    This  cracks  the  very  glass 
Of  our  fair  prospect,  wherein  we  saw  him  sit 
With  listening  ear  to  wisdom. 

[To  messenger]     No! 

Ara.  My  lord 

Dion.  Say  to  the  tyrant  I'll  not  feast  with  him. 

[Exit  messenger] 

Ara.  May  I  be  bold  to  say  this  is  not  well? 
I  fear,  my  lord,  your  stern,  imperious  port 
Is  much  against  you  in  our  easeful  city. 
If  on  occasion  you  would  smooth  your  brow 
To  patient  lenience  you  in  time  would  win 
All  hearts  to  wear  the  livery  of  your  purpose, 
That  now  shows  cold  and  sober  for  their  mood. 

Dion.  Not   so!      The    bending  tree  ne'er  kissed  the 

clouds. 

I  will  not  stoop!     What?     Flaunt  his  sport  before 
A  sage's  eye,  who  comes  at  his  own  suit 
To  teach  him  truth? 

Aris.  Yet  we  must  not  forget 

Discourteous  truth  is  hated;  vehemence, 


THE    SIEGE  219 

The  whip  of  argument,  but  frights  conviction. 
Pardon  so  stale  a  word. 

Ara.  But  'tis  so  true! 

The  winding  zephyr,  not  the  hurrying  gale, 
Finds  out  the  hidden  rose.     My  brother's  heart 
Has  yet  a  grain  of  good,  which  gentleness 
May  find  and  touch  to  life. 

Dion.  It  was  the  slight, 

The  unseemly  slight  to  you,  Aristocles, 
So  chafed  me. 

Aris.  Think  but  of  our  charge,  my  friend, 
Fair  Syracuse. 

Dion.  So,  so!     I  say  no  more. 

Your  wisdom  be  to  me  Athene's  shield 
Whereby  I'll  see  to  strike  this  head  of  wrong 
Nor  be  devoured.     Come,  we  will  walk  abroad. 
But  not  to  court. 

Aris.  [To  Aratea]  My  wishes  wait  on  thee. 
May  Fortune  dress  thee  for  a  second  self 
Till  eyes  mistaking  seek  thy  face  for  hers. 

Ara.  Nay,  let  her  wed  thee,  and  like  loving  wife 
Give  all  her  portion,  then  empty-handed  pluck 
New  grace  from  heaven  to  adorn  thee  still. 

[Exeunt  Dion  and  Aristocles] 

Nau.  Now,  Aratea,  the  song  of  praise!  Which  of  the 
gods  is  he  most  like? 

Ara.  Like  none  of  them.  Jove  is  long-bearded,  Nep 
tune  has  forgot  to  walk,  Mercury  is  boyish,  Apollo  like 
a  woman,  and  Mars  so  heavy  -footed  he  would  stumble 
mocking  the  grace  of  Aristocles! 

Nau.  'Tis  plain  a  curious  eye  will  never  take  you  to 
Olympus,  since  you've  seen  the  Athenian. 

Ara.  I  own  I  have  a  sudden  comfort  from  this  gentle 
sage. 

Nau.  What  is  it? 


220  THE    SIEGE 

Am.  You  know  my  Dion  has  one  only  fault. 

Nau.  O,  all  but  perfect  man! 

Am.  He  is  so  true  that  he  is  stern  as  truth. 

Nau.  That's  truth  indeed! 

Am.  So  just  that  he  is  harsh  as  Justice'  self. 

Nau.  Another  truth! 

Am.  So  good  that 

Nau.  What !     More  of  this  singular  fault  ? 

Ara.  This  Athens'  tongue,  so  sweetly  mediate, 
Will  lead  the  people's  love  unto  my  lord, 
Who  now  upholds  the  state  in  thankless  sort. 
They  honor  and  admire,  but  keep  their  hearts 
For  those  who  woo  them !     Ah,  I  blame  them  not. 

Oc.  Dion  need  borrow  no  Athenian  tongue 
To  speak  for  him. 

Nau.  You'll  hear  no  voice  denies 
Him  perfect  praise. 

Oc.  W7ho  would  deny  it? 

The.  None, 

Ocrastes,  none.     How  like  a  gem  unpriced 
His  rich  simplicity  doth  shine  amid 
The  purpled  show  of  lords !     It  is  as  though 
The  sovereign  alkahest,  weary  of  law, 
Had  given  the  scorned  pebble  leave  to  glow 
The  fairest  eye  of  all  the  pearled  shore. 

Ara.  They'll  sing  us  deaf,  Nauresta,  on  this  theme. 
But  come.  [Draws  Nauresta  away]  Come,  madam,  come ! 

We  must  prepare 
Some  good- wife  pleasure  for  my  lord's  return. 

[Exeunt  Aratea  and  Nauresta,  left] 

Oc.  [Embracing   Theano]  My  love!     At  last!     O  god 
dess  Patience,  how 

Thou  muffledst  me!     Time  crept  on  thousand  legs 
And  each  one  crippled. 

The.  Ay,  so  slow  the  hour 


V     or  THE 

UNIVERS 

THE    SIEGE  221 


Moved  to  this  golden  now  I  thought  each  moment 
Turned  back  to  seek  some  loss  and  spent  itself 
A  second  time. 

Oc.  Now  all  the  world's  at  morn. 

How  young  we  are,  Theano  !     O,  'tis  true 
Life  is  at  tick  of  dawn  when  love  begins. 

The.  I'm  older  then  than  you,  for  I  'gan  love 
The  day  you  won  the  laurel  from  proud  Carthage. 
In  the  wild  race  how  like  a  shooting  star 
You  made  a  heaven  of  earth's  grosser  air! 
And  'twas  that  day  I  heard  old  warriors  say 
Your  lance  would  dare  prick  ope  the  clouds  till  Mars 
Looked  forth  to  combat.     Ah,  I  scarce  believe 
Our  island's  easy  lap  did  bear  you,  and  thank 
The  gods  that  wealth,  whose  poison  -pampered  tooth 
Likes  best  the  marrow-sweet  of  youth,  has  left 
You  still  a  man. 

Oc.  Truth  weeps  when  lovers  talk, 

But  where  is  sound  more  sweet?     All  that  I  am 
I  owe  to  Dion.     Give  to  him  the  praise, 
If  praise  is  due,  and  you  would  please  me  best. 

The.  Thy  approbation  is  my  glass  of  merit, 
And  there  alone  am  I  arrayed  fair, 
Yet  for  his  sake,  not  yours,  I  love  lord  Dion. 
'Tis  wonder's  hour  in  wonder's  day  he  should 
So  fit  his  life,  despite  the  careless  time, 
To  please  the  gods. 

Oc.  When  shall  we  tell  him,  love, 

Of  this  new  joy  of  ours? 

TJie.  My  mother  first. 

Oc.  Didst  note  her  frown? 
What  has  so  changed  her,  sweet? 

TJie.  I  find  her  troubled  late,  as  she  would  soothe 
Her  breast  above  some  panting  mystery. 

Oc.  She  must  disclose  the  cause,  and  show  if  't  has 


THE    SIEGE 

An  honest  face.     I'll  have  no  mincing  doubts 
And  ghostly  secrets  peering  on  our  love. 

The.  She  is  our  gentle  mother.     Wait,  my  heart ! 

Oc.  Phillistus  is  too  often  at  her  ear. 
Have  guard  against  him.     In  his  smoothest  words 
He'll  subtly  seat  a  devil  to  confound  you. 
'Tis  pity.     Eloquence  is  the  flute  o'  the  soul, 
Which  virtue  alone  should  play,  for  good  or  bad 
It  has  immortal  consequence. 

The.  He  was 

My  father's  friend,  and  well  may  be  my  mother's. 

Oc.  Ah,  but  he  coos  too  near  her  widowed  nest. 

The.  Ocrastes!     Can  you  dare?     My  noble  mother! 
WThose  sorrows  sit  like  shadows  in  her  eye? 
Whose  loyal  breast  asks  no  embrace  less  chill 
Than  the  cold  tomb  where  my  dear  father  lies? 

Oc.  'Twas  but  a  word. 

The.  Unsay  it,  O,  unsay  it ! 

Oc.  Ay,  by  our  island's  god,  'twas  never  spoken! 

The.  I've  scarce  a  breath,  Ocrastes. 

Oc.  And  that  breath 

This  kiss  must  drink.     You  will  forgive?     Speak  not. 
These  clinging  lips  have  told  me.     A  kiss,  Theano, 
Unseals  all  secrets  but  to  be  their  grave. 
Then  we  know  all,  and  all  we  know's  forgot. 
'Tis  saying  true,  a  kiss  is  worth  the  world, 
When,  having  it,  there's  no  world  but  a  kiss. 

[Re-enter  Nauresta  and  Aratea,  left] 

Nau.  [Crossing  to  Theano]  Still  here,  my  daughter? 
[Enter  Brentio,  right] 

Bren.  O,  mistress,  the  master  is  coming  with  Dionysius. 
Since  he  would  not  take  the  Athenian  to  court,  the  court 
is  coming  hither. 

Oc.  Here?     'Tis  a  strange  declension  of  his  pride. 

Ara.  I  fear  'tis  cover  for  a  thrust  'gainst  Dion. 


THE    SIEGE  £23 

Oc.  No !    Virtue  such  as  his  is  heavened  above 
The  reach  of  sceptres. 

Ara.  But  he  was  too  bold 
In  his  refusal  to  attend  the  feast. 
They  come!    And  Dionysius'  brow  is  like 
A  new,  unclouded  sun.     No  eyes  for  us! 

[Enter  Diony  sius,  Aristocles,  Dion,  and  lords] 

Diony.  [To  Aristocles}  Speak  on,  nor  cease  t'  enchant  my 

roused  ear, 

Although  thy  words,  like  honey  from  the  isle 
Where  Ate  fell,  are  something  mixed  with  bitter. 
But  give  me  not  to  virtue  suddenly, 
Lest  she  disdain  the  greening,  unripe  fruit, 
And  from  her  sun  I  do  forever  fall. 

Dion.  Heed  then  his  counsel,  Dionysius. 
A  ruler  is  the  state's  bountificer, — 
High  warden  at  the  gates  of  happy  good, — 
And  when  he  turns  unto  himself  the  stream 
That  should  make  fair  his  country,  he  is  damned 
As  oft  a  robber  as  his  subjects  count. 
Each  man  he  meets  may  claim  his  golden  coat ! 

Diony.  What's  your  rough  meaning,  sir? 

Aris.  'Tis  this,  my  lord. 

Here  is  a  land  born  in  a  dream  of  Nature, 
And  given  to  man  to  please  her  waking  eyes 
Until  she  thinks  that  yet  she  dreams.     His  task 
To  build  the  adorning  temple,  turn  groves  retired 
To  happy  shades  where  wisdom  meets  with  youth, 
And  with  triumphant  art  set  statued  thought 
To  gleam  abroad  from  every  favored  spot 
Till  e'en  the  flattered  gods  be  tempted  here 
In  marble  fair  to  wait  on  mortal  eyes, 
And  genius  roam  in  generation  free. 
Breathing  the  constant  good  of  mind  aspiring, 
Till  not  a  clod,  be  it  or  earth  or  human, 


THE    SIEGE 

But  knows  a  smile  to  make  itself  more  fair. 
How  should  it  grieve  thee  then  to  see  the  pomp 
Of  one,  sole,  only  man  heave  with  the  weight 
Of  all  the  state,  and  wear  in  barren  pride 
The  fertile  beauty  of  his  golden  isle? 

Diony.  Divine  Athenian,  if  I  be  that  man, 
Be  thou  the  master  of  my  realm  till  I 
Have  learned  what  'tis  to  be  one.     Teach  me  here 
My  first  new  duty. 

Dion.  Check  debauching  riot 

That  sluices  now  the  palace!  Cease  these  feasts 
That  fume  to  heaven  like  Hecate's  brewing-vats! 
Nay,  sir,  those  scowls  unwrite  your  waterish  vow. 

Aris.   Our  Dion  means,  my  lord,  that  virtue  wanes 
As  revels  wax ;  and  yet  an  hour  of  rest 
The  gods  allow  us.     I  myself  have  trained 
Young  figures  for  the  dance  that  wreathes  with  grace 
The  needful,  idle  hour. 

Diony.  You  leave  us  music? 

Aris.  Ay,  'tis  the  angel  'tween  the  sense  and  soul, 
A  hand  on  each,  that  one  may  feel  the  touch 
Of  purest  heaven  mid  rosy  revelling, 
The  other  catch  sweet  trembles  of  a  wave 
That  shake  her  calm  till  white  cheek  meets  the  rose. 

Diony.  And  feasting,  sir? 

Aris.  Nay,  there's  the  soul's  expense 

For  what  o'erdims  her  fair,  majestic  visions; 
But  fruits  of  sheltered  vales  grow  lush  for  man, 
And  awny  grasses  droop  with  sugared  grains, 
And  wine,  tempered  to  reason's  flow,  oft  lights 
The  questing  mind. 

Diony.  Enough!     No  groaning  board 

That  shifts  its  burden  to  the  spirit!     No  revel 
To  pleasure  Pleasure!     Naught  but  what  is  meet 
For  fair  philosophy's  rclaxive  hour! 


THE    SIEGE  225 

Adrastus,  see  'tis  done.     Go  instantly! 

[Exit  Adrastus] 
Dion,  you're  for  the  harbor? 

Dion  With  your  leave. 

Diony.  Which  we  must  grant.     Your  business  is  our 
own. 

Oc.  With  you,  my  lord? 

Dion.  Most  welcome  son.     Adieu. 

[Exeunt  Dion  and  Ocrastes] 

Ara.  Brother,  'tis  long  since  you  have  visited  me. 
I  hold  a  magnet  now  in  our  new  friend 
Will  draw  you  to  my  house. 

Diony.  Nay,  I  must  rob  you. 

The  palace  is  his  home. 

Ara.  O,  not  to-day! 

Diony.  I'll  yield  to-day,  but  not  an  hour  beyond 
To-morrow's  sun.     Adieu,  Aristocles. 
Give  me  thy  love;  I'll  give  thee  Syracuse. 

[Exeunt  Dionysius  and  lords] 

Ara.  [To  Aristocles]  We  have  some  statues  in  the  gar 
den,  sir, 
May  please  an  eye  from  Athens.     Will  you  come? 

[Exeunt  Aratea  and  Aristocles] 

The.  Mother,  why  look  so  darkly  on  Ocrastes? 

Nau.  Darkly,  my  daughter? 

The.  Has  he  not  a  soul 

As  truly  virtuous  as  his  face  is  fair? 

Nau.  True,  but  he's  not  for  you.     Believe  it. 

The.  Ah! 

Nau.  Nor  grieve  my  heart  with  pleading  to  know  more. 
Some  day  I'll  speak,  but  now  my  bosom's  locked 
With  key  not  in  my  hands. 

The.  Mother,  I  pray 

You'll  give  no  more  a  flattered,  willing  ear 
To  lord  Phillistus'  tongue. 


226  THE    SIEGE 

Nau.  What  do  you  mean? 

The.  I  do  not  know.     I  am  disturbed  by  him. 
I  scarce  can  tell  you  how. 

Nau.  To  call  him  friend 

But  proves  my  loyalty  to  the  loved  dead. 

The.  I  do  not  doubt  my  mother !     No,  no,  no ! 
But  him  I  fear.     His  eye  speaks  muddily, 
And  echoes  not  his  words. 

Nau.                                No  more  of  this ! 
You  prattle,  child.     Say  that  he  loves  me 

The.  Ah, 

Not  that! 

Nau.    Yet  were  he  villain,  is  not  love 
The  soul's  sweet  cleanser  and  redeeming  incense? 

The.  The  serpent  and  the  bee  make  food  and  venom 
Of  the  same  flower's  sweetness;   so  fair  minds 
In  love  enlarge  with  merit,  while  villainy, 
Sucking  such  sweet,  swells  rank  and  poisonous. 

Nau.  No  more,  my  daughter! 

[Enter  courtiers,  right] 

Nau.  Good-day,  my  lords!  You  are  early  from  the 
play.  Did  it  not  please  you? 

First  courtier.  Tame,  tame.  I'd  not  have  left  my  couch 
at  the  bath  for  such.  And  Dracon's  tongue  was  middle 
of  a  pretty  tale. 

Nau.  But  the  banquet — why  stayed  you  not  for  that? 

Second  courtier.  Have  you  not  heard?  The  seven  evil 
winds  have  struck  the  feast,  and  left  but  fruit  and  wine. 
My  wife's  as  good  a  cook.  Can  serve  a  plate  of  figs! 

Nau.  What's  this? 

First  courtier.  As  we  say.  Our  delectable  gardens  are 
smit  with  sudden  prudent  frost.  The  mullein  and  the 
plantain  shortly  will  grow  where  we  have  plucked  luxu 
riance'  rose. 


THE    SIEGE  227 

[Enter  Aratea  and  Aristocles] 

Nau.  What  do  you  mean,  my  lord? 

First  courtier.  [Looking  at  Aristocles]  The  wind  is  all  too 
near  that  wrought  this  havoc. 

Arts.  Nay,  have  no  fear  for  Dion.  You  wrong  this  hour 
of  promise.  Your  brother  yields  us  much. 

Am.  Indeed  too  much !  These  sudden  born  desires  are 
to  be  feared  in  him.  Ah,  here's  Ocrastes. 

Nau.  He's  much  disturbed.     I  know  that  brow. 
[Re-enter  Ocrastes,  right] 

The.  Ocrastes? 

Oc.  Now  heavens  shake  for  what  mine  eyes  have  seen! 
I  followed  Dion  to  the  southern  shore 
Where  the  new  pinnace  floats  beneath  the  castle, 
And  there  Domenes  held  him  in  close  talk, 
When  suddenly  ere  wink  could  question  it, 
The  soldiers  had  him  bound  within  a  boat 
Outrowing  to  the  pinnace,  which  took  him  up 
And  bent  to  sea  like  an  embodied  wind. 
But  that  a  score  of  traitor  arms  enforced  me 
The  waves  had  kept  me  not  on  hated  land! 
Surprise  so  stormed  him  Dion  scarce  could  call 
"Revenge  me  not,  but  seek  to  calm  the  city!" 
Then  from  the  pinnace  a  relenting  boat 
Brought  this  short  writing.     'Tis  for  Aratea. 

Ara.  Read — read — Ocrastes — I — I  can  not  see. 

Oc.  [Reads]  Aristocles  will  be  thy  comfort.  Bid  him 
not  forget  Syracuse  to  think  of  me.  Now  that  the  thorny 
counsellor  is  plucked  from  court,  he  can  do  much  with 
Dionysius.  Ocrastes  will  be  to  thee  a  brother  of  more 
love  than  ever  was  the  tyrant.  Sweet,  farewell.  'Tis  from 
thine  eyes  I'm  banished,  not  thy  heart. 

Ara.  O  Dion,  Dion!     My  unhappy  lord! 

Aris.  Abate  thy  grief,  dear  lady.     Affliction  is 


THE    SIEGE 

The  night  of  man  where  stars  his  lustrous  soul 
That  in  a  happy  sun  would  pale  unseen. 

A  ra.  My  brother !     'Tis  his  treacherous  hand !     O,  me ! 
Now  heaven  and  earth  be  naught,  I  care  not ! 

[Exeunt  Aratea,  Nauresta,  Theano  and  attendants] 

A  courtier.  Come! 

There's  more  to  this. 
"  Another.  Ay,  friends,  let's  to  the  streets. 

[Courtiers  hurry  away.     Ocrastes  and  Aristocles  alone] 

Oc.  I'll  rouse  the  populace! 

Aris.  No,  you  will  calm  it. 

Oc.  Sir,  I  was  knit  in  heat  and  tempered  mortal ! 
Your  natal  star  was  cold  when  you  were  born, 
Dead  in  the  heavens,  had  long  forgot  its  fire, 
And  could  not  give  one  twinkle's  warmth  to  you! 
I've  blood,  and  know  my  friends! 

Aris.  Dost  think  that  sorrow 

Lives  only  in  hot  brows?     No  angers  be 
That  rage  not  on  the  tongue? 

Oc.  O,  you  can  feel? 

Aris.  Here  sweep  the  tides  that  prove  it. 

Oc.  Yet  so  calm? 

Aris.  Who  keeps  his  heart  astir  with  his  own  woe 
Has  never  room  for  others.     Let  us  put 
Our  paltry  love  aside  and  seek  the  good 
Of  all  the  city,  not  of  one  because 
He  is  our  friend.     Think  not  a  man  may  leave 
Life's  reefed  and  breakered  straits  behind  and  reach 
Philosophy's  still- waved  almighty  sea 
With  selfish  sorrow's  mottled  pilot  eye. 

Oc.  And  you've  a  mortal  pulse?    Can  love  and  die? 

Aris.  I  am  as  you,  Ocrastes, — heart  and  limb, — 
But  I  have  given  my  kingdom  to  my  soul, 
And  throned  secure  above  the  body's  chance 
Rock  not  with  its  misfortune. 


THE    SIEGE  229 

Oc.  Who  can  keep 

Such  sovereign  state,  my  lord?     Art  never  torn 
Or  shaken? 

Aris.  What  hap  of  winds,  think  you,  may  shake 
The  monarch  towers  of  the  soul? 

Oc.  Forgive  me, 

Aristocles.     Thou  sun  immovable! 
How  like  Hyperion  fixed  in  calm  you  shine, 
And  riot's  faction  in  my  blood  grows  still 
With  looking  on  thee.     I'll  to  court  and  strive 
With  sober  measure  to  effect  repeal 
Of  Dion's  banishment.     And  failing  that, 
I  yet  may  save  for  him  his  untouched  wealth. 

[Going,  turns] 

Is  it  not  lonely  on  the  serene  height, 
My  lord? 

Aris.  The  gods  are  sometimes  there. 

[Exit  Ocrastes] 
The  gods? 

Vain  words  on  vainer  tongue.     O,  man,  man,  man ! 
Weak  child  of  limit  and  unwinged  desire, 
Coping  with  deity  in  daring  bout, 
And  drowned  at  last  within  a  woman's  tear! 
.  .  .  Hyperion  fixed  in  calm.     Ay,  true  it  is 
That  in  the  heaven  of  my  sphering  mind 
I've  reached  the  pause  solstitial.     And  would  fain 
Take  comet  course  on  new,  unbidden  track 
Than  traverse  o'er  the  stale  appointed  route. 
Ay,  break  the  orbit's  fond  and  placid  round, 
And  swim  a  wonder  to  the  staring  suns ! 
The  end  is  death, — and  yet  a  comet's  death. 
The  rushing  wings  are  round  me,  bear  me  up, 
And  drive  me  like  a  meteor  charging  doom, 
When  Aratea  veils  me  with  her  eves. 


230  THE    SIEGE 

[Enter  Tichus] 

Tick.  [Aside,  noting  Aristocles'  groan]  Ho,  for  ill  that's 
past  and  ill  that  is  to  come,  philosophy  has  ever  a  saw,  but 
in  a  present  pinch  speaks  not  for  groaning !  .  .  .  My  lord, 
the  lady  Aratea  asks  for  word  with  you. 

Aris.  [Hesitating]  Tell  her  ...  I  come. 

[Curtain] 


ACT   II 

SCENE  1.  An  outer  court,  Dionysius'  palace.  Two  en 
trances  to  palace  on  the  right.  Columns  rear.  Sea  and 
sky  seen  between  them.  Behind  columns  a  street.  At 
left  a  garden.  Speusippus  and  lords  pass  from  street 
toward  garden. 

Speu.  Dion,  my  lords,  has  gathered  friends  in  Athens, 
And  waits  your  invitation  to  set  sail 
With  power  for  your  relief.     Six  circled  moons 
Have  risen  from  the  sea  since  he  was  banished 
And  you  are  dumb  as  you  were  staring  yet 
Upon  the  marvel  of  his  taking  off. 

First  lord.  What  is  his  life  with  you  ? 

Speu.  He  walks  a  mark 

For  Athens'  eye, — a  breathing  virtue,  sir, 
Making  the  good  in  other  men  stand  still 
To  gaze  at  what  in  him  is  better. 

Second  lord.  This 

Is  his  true  color. 

Speu.  True?    By  Pallas,  sir, 

Apollo  purges  not  more  ardently 
The  earth  of  humors  than  he  iniquity 
From  man  and  state!     Divinity  has  made 
His  heart  her  brooding  place  to  bring  forth  deeds 
So  like  her  own  complexion  that  men  read 
The  book  of  Heaven  in  them  and  grow  wise 
Without  the  aid  of  schools. 

First  lord.  We  know  our  loss. 

Third  lord.  The  tyrant  sends  him  his  great  revenues. 

231 


THE    SIEGE 

Speu.  Which  Dion  casts  like  sweet  and  general  rain 
On  parching  poverty.     His  charity 
Is  a  perpetual  summer  where  bruised  merit 
Lifteth  in  flower. 

Second  lord.      So  was  it  here. 

Speu.  And  you 

Could  have  him  home  had  you  some  brave  Greek  blood 
At  heart.    Please  you,  I've  heard  a  shepherdess 
Combed  wool  on  Dardan  plain  when  Troy  was  burning- 
Methinks  Sicilian  sires  bred  from  that  dame. 

First  lord.  By  Zeus,  this  is  bold  rating. 

Second  lord.  'Tis  our  due. 

'Twixt  caution's  pause  and  the  delay  of  shame 
Lies  but  one  step,  and  Syracuse  is  on  it. 
Courage  grows  agued  and  hunches  at  the  hearth 
Forefearing  enterprise. 

Speu.  Can  you  be  still? 

Third  lord.  No  more,  my  lord.     Here's  Dionysius. 

[  They  move  into  garden  as  Dionysius  enters  from  street  with 
Aristocles  and  other  lords,  and  turns  toward  palace] 

First  lord.  He's  well  attended. 

Second  lord.  Ay,  let  tattered  vice 

Step  out  o'  door  and  contemnation  hoots 
It  home  again,  while  silken  viciousness 
May  march  as  't  will  'tween  meek  uncovered  polls, 
With  Flattery's  footmen  running  neck  and  neck 
To  open  any  gate. 

First  lord.  True!  true! 

Speu.  Talk!  talk! 

A  sword's  the  tongue  for  me! 

Third  lord.  The  tyrant  speaks. 

Hark,  friends! 

Diony.  Aristocles,  excepting  thee 

No  man  alive  might  teach  me  hate  myself. 
Say  what  thou  wilt,  I'll  love  thee! 


THE    SIEGE  233 

Third  lord.  Fair  enough. 

Second  lord.  Fair  in  the  flower,  but  no  fruit,  my  lord. 
The  fragrance  sickens.     A  sound  wholesome  deed 
Were  pungent  sniffing! 

Aris.  Sir,  upon  the  soil 

Of  this  fair  courtesy  I'd  lodge  a  seed 
Might  bloom  with  Dion's  pardon. 

Diony.  Pardon  Dion! 

By  Delos'  horned  altar,  no!     My  tongue 
Compound  my  own  destruction? 

Aris.  Sir,  your  tongue 

Is  bound  to  you,  but  I  could  wish  it  had 
A  wiser  master. 

Diony.  Roast  me  in  the  bull 

Of  Phalaris,  if  I  be  such  a  fool ! 
Thou  know'st  that  he  conspired  against  me! 

Aris.  Nay 

Diony.  With  honey  breath  you  steal  into  my  heart 
But  to  betray  it ! 

Aris.  I  pray  your  leave  to  sail 

From  Sicily.     Greece  hath  a  place  for  me 
Above  insult. 

Diony.       Go  when  you  will.     To-day! 
Our  admiral  shall  bear  you. 

[To  Heraclides]  Hear  you,  sir? 
Choose  out  your  ship.  Aristocles,  farewell. 
Talk  not  of  me  i'  the  Academe. 

Aris.  My  lord, 

The  gods  take  care  we've  no  such  dearth  of  matter. 
Farewell. 

Diony.  [As  Aristocles  turns  to  go}  Dost  mean  it? 

Nay!     Spoil  not  my  jest. 
Canst  take  offence  from  one  who  loveth  thee? 
In  truth  wouldst  go? 

Aris.  The  winds  that  fan  me  hence 


234  THE    SIEGE 

Will  be  as  welcome  as  the  breeze  that  lifts 
The  sail  of  calm-bound  mariners  that  long 
Have  in  mid-ocean  rocked  and  dreamed  of  food. 

Diony.  No,  no,  my  friend !     Thou  shalt  not  go  from  me ! 
Dost  call  thyself  philosopher,  and  take 
First  chance  to  fly  thy  duty  here?     Hear  you, 
Lord  admiral.     Watch  every  gate  nor  let 
This  bold  man  pass.      Sink  the  Sicilian  fleet 
Ere  you  do  spare  a  ship  for  hire  or  pity 
To  grant  him  sail  and  beggar  me  of  friends, 
For  all  my  friends  are  corporate  now  in  him. 
[To  Aristocles]  Talk  not  of  parting  while  you  have  my  love. 
Cold  yet?     Go  seek  my  sister.     She  will  bring 
Your  high  look  to  sweet  friendship's  level.     Go. 
Yours  is  the  only  tongue  can  draw  her  from 
Her  tearful  reticence.     Tell  her  the  stars 
Will  find  me  with  her.     I  have  news  too  new 
For  pale  indifference.     'Twill  rouse  her  wrath 
Or  pleasure. 

[Speusippus  and  companions  pass  from  garden  to  street 
and  off  left] 

Ha,  what  Greekish  stranger  there? 

Phil.  Speusippus,  sir. 

Diony.  Methought  his  acid  look 

Had  turned  my  purple  cloak  a  pauperish  yellow. 

Phil.  Aristocles  best  knows  him.     An  Athenian. 

Aris.  [Who  is  slowly  going  into  palace  by  smaller  en 
trance,  front,  turns]  And  worthy  of  his  birth.     He  is  my 

friend, 
And  brings  me  Dion's  love. 

Diony.  That  name  again! 

.  .  .  Well,  thou'rt  my  soul. 

[Aristocles  goes  into  palace.     Diony sius  turns  to  larger 
entrance  rear] 


THE    SIEGE  235 

Phil.  [Detaining  Heraclides]  A  word  with  you,  my  lord. 
\Diomj sins  and  attendants  enter  palace] 

Her.  What's  urgent,  friend? 

Phil.  Marked  you  Speusippus? 

Her.  Ay. 

Phil.  He  comes  to  stir  a  war  in  Dion's  name. 
Already  there's  a  rumbling  'mong  the  people 
That  warns  us  to  be  swift. 

Her.  My  fears  have  caught  it. 

Phil.  The  tyrant's  mood  is  ripe.     See  how  he  loves 
And  hates  Aristocles?     This  is  the  hour 
To  move  him  to  the  Athenian's  death. 

Her.  You're  right. 

When  friendship  oars  'tween  choler  and  regard, 
A  crafty  hand  may  steer  which  wished  way 
Sets  wind  of  secret  business,  and  he 
That  rides  be  none  the  wiser. 

Phil.  The  Athenian 

Removed,  then  Dionysius  is  our  own. 

Her.  We'll  have  short  need  of  him.    The  tyrant's  guards 
Are  envious  of  the  Greek  to  murder's  pitch, 
Because  he  counsels  Dionysius 
To  cast  them  off  and  rule  by  love  alone. 
The  captain  stands  our  friend,  his  sword  aloft 
To  fall  as  turns  the  hair. 

Phil.  The  guards  must  do  't. 

The  people  hold  them  privileged  in  humors, 
And  say  not  yea  or  nay  to  them.     But  does 
Callorus  join  us? 

Her.  He  yet  hesitates. 

Phil.  Then  cease  your  suasion  and  to  his  easy  state 
Clap  screws  will  cramp.     Pain  is  the  orator 
Can  clinch  his  case  and  drive  the  question  home. 

Her.  You'll  to  .Egisthus? 


THE    SIEGE 

Phil.  Ay,  though  we've  a  difference. 

A  trifle  that  his  vanity  may  stand  on. 

Her.  Make  your  excuse,  but  study  how  you  do  it. 
Faults  oft  are  none  till  clapped  conspicuous 
With  an  apology. 

Phil.  I've  learned  of  you. 

None  has  a  tongue  more  apt  to  come  at  love 
'Neath  what  ill  cover  hides  it.     Dionysius 
I  leave  to  you.     My  name  use  as  'twere  yours. 
My  sum  of  wisdom  is  to  know  your  own 
And  trust  you  wholly. 

Her.  That  you  may,  Phillistus. 

My  fame  rests  on  this  move.  [Exit] 

Phil.  Your  fame,  good  sir, 

Has  naught  to  do  with  what  I  close  intend. 
By  Victory's  wings,  I'll  reach  the  top  of  power, 
Or  from  her  golden  ball  knock  Fortune's  foot 
And  steer  her  course  myself !     Now  to  Nauresta. 

[Goes  into  palace,  front  entrance.  Brentio,  Tichus  and 
Methone  enter  merrily  from  garden.  Brentio  carries 
a  large  harp.  They  sit  on  benches  left] 

Bren.  These  are  merry  days  since  Dionysius  brought  us 
to  the  palace.  I  would  weep  for  my  poor  banished  mas 
ter,  for  they  say  a  far  country  makes  a  weary  foot,  but 
there's  so  much  laughing  matter  here — the  singing  and  the 
rhyming,  and  the  pretty  wenches  tripping  your  eyes  up  at 
every  corner,  that  my  tears  are  no  more  out  than  I've  good 
reason  to  whip  them  in  again. 

Meth.  O  Venus !  There's  no  laughing  here  save  of  your 
dreaming.  Dost  see  how  the  courtiers  scowl?  They  say 
the  scholars  and  philosophers  leave  them  no  dancing  room 
in  the  palace;  the  halls  are  full  of  sand  for  the  pleasure  of 
the  students  that  come  to  draw  those  foolish  figures — 
plates,  they  call  em 

Tick.  Geometry. 


THE    SIEGE  237 

Bren.  That's  your  master's  doing.  Thank  the  wise  man 
for  that! 

M eth.  It  suits  our  mistresses  well  enough.  They  blink 
at  a  smile  as  an  owlet  at  the  sun.  Troth,  I've  seen  them 
weep  so  much  that  I  feel  wrapped  in  a  fog  with  the  vapor 
of  their  tears. 

Tick.  But  let  us  be  merry.  No  more  sad  airs,  my  sweet 
Methone. 

Bren.  [Aside]  I  like  not  this  sugary  possessive.  .  .  . 
Play,  my  own  sweetest  Methone,  and  I'll  sing  you  a  song 
out  of  head. 

Meth.  Pray  you,  sing  it  not  out  of  feet  too,  for  a  limping 
line  is  past  carrying. 

Bren.  'Tis  a  song  of  you  and  will  go  fast  enough,  I 
warrant. 

Meth.  [Scornfully]  Of  me? 

Bren.  Nay,  of  your  jewels! 

Meth.  An  you  mock  me,  I'll 

Bren.  [Touching  his  lips]  Your  rubies  [pointing  to  his 
eyes],  your  diamonds  {grinning  to  show  teeth],  your  pearls. 

Tick.  You  may  sing  that  song  when  diamonds  wink  tears, 
rubies  pucker  for  kisses,  and  pearls  bite  figs  i'  the  morning. 

Bren.  Well,  I've  a  better  one.     [Sings] 

Her  voice  is  like  the  birds  that  wive 
When  blossoms  swing  in  April  trees, 

And  from  her  bosom's  honey  hive 
Sighs  come  and  go  like  bees. 

Her  smile 

Meth.  Nay,  I'm  no  farm-house  sweet  for  loutish  Cory- 
don!  How  would  you  sing  me,  master  Tichus,  were  I  in 
Athens  where  every  maid  is  fair? 

Tick.  With  more  truth  and  less  boast. 

Meth.  Your  song,  sir. 

[Tichus  sings] 


238  THE    SIEGE 

Heigh-ho,  my  star  of  love 

Has  left  its  heaven  high, 
And  all  the  beauteous  court  above, 

To  dwell  in  fair  Methone's  eye. 
And  now,  alas,  unlucky  bliss, 

It  finds  a  home  so  bright 
That  all  its  beauty  buried  is 

Within  that  fairer,  cruel  light. 

No  more,  no  more  it  shines  for  me 

But  as  she  gives  it  leave ! 
O,  bid  thy  stars,  sweet  maid,  agree 

Bren.  Ho,  if  heaven  had  no  stars  save  those  left  by 
lovers  after  fitting  up  their  mistress'  eyes,  Erebus  would 
stumble  for  want  of  candles ! 

Meth.  [Jumping  up]  Go!     I  hear  my  mistress! 
[Tichus  walks  leisurely  into  garden,  Brentio  following] 
Meth.  Brentio,  take  the  harp ! 

[Brentio  returns  and  picks  up  harp] 
Bren.  So!     I'm  an  excellent  dromedary,  if  I  can't  flute 
it  like  Apollo. 

Meth.  Run,  snail! 

Bren.  Not  I,  by  Vulcan's  limp! 

[Theano  appears  at  smaller  entrance  of  palace] 
The.  Methone? 

[Brentio  runs  into  garden] 
The.  [Coming  out]  You  here,   Methone?     Attend  the 

lady  Nauresta. 

I  fear  your  pleasure  and  your  duty  lie 
Too  far  apart.     [Exit  Methone,  right] 

Ocrastes,  come!     My  love! 
Fair  closed  flowers  that  wait  the  royal  dawn 
Ere  they  will  sport  with  beauty's  open  face 
Are  as  my  heart  that  caseth  up  its  joy 
To  wait  thy  voice. 


THE    SIEGE  239 

[The  day  darkens  to  dusk.     Theatio  looks  into  the  garden, 
suddenly  eager] 

He's  coming!     No,  he  stops 
To  talk  with  Brentio.     How  close  they  whisper! 
What  is  't  he  gives  the  slave?     For  shame,  bold  eyes, 
To  spy  upon  a  lord  so  true !    What  was  't 
Phillistus  said?     No  matter.     It  was  false. 

[She  moves  aside  as  Brentio  crosses  to  palace] 

Bren.  [Jingling  coins]  O  sweet,  sweet  gold!   Art  mine — 

all  mine — my  love? 

And  will  I  do  it?     Ay!     I'd  sell  my  soul 
To  such  a  brave  paymaster. 

[Enters  palace] 

Oc.  [Coming  on  right,  not  seeing  Theano] 

Vile,  too  vile! 
Let  me  not  think  of  it. 

The.  Cerastes? 

Oc.  Ah, 

My  never-setting  star! 

The.  But  you  are  troubled. 

Hast  news? 

Oc.          Rumors,  my  girl.     They're  in  the  air 
Like  floating  poisons.     O  that  Syracuse 
Had  one  man  in  't! 

The.  Look  in  my  eyes  and  see  him. 

Oc.  One  sword  in  one  right  hand! 

The.  Here,  in  my  eyes. 

Oc.  I  see  a  dallying,  damned  temporizer, 
Who  stops  to  count  the  threatening  dragon's  teeth 
Ere  reaving  him  of  head. 

The.  My  love,  what  is  it? 

Oc.  Still  Dion  lingers,  playing  the  game  of  wits 
In  idle  Athens,  while  scandal  eats  his  name 

The.  Ocrastes! 

Oc.  Yes,  I  said  it. 


240  THE    SIEGE 


The.  Ah,  you  mean 

Oc.  I  mean 

The.  Aristocles. 

Oc.  O,  Dion,  Dion! 

The.  Speusippus  says  he  comes. 

Oc.  Too  late  he  comes 

That  should  be  here  already. 

The.  Dear  my  love, 

He  is  not  young  as  you,  and  years  are  cautious. 
While  age  makes  ready  to  resent  affront 
The  blows  of  youth  are  given  and  forgot. 

Oc.  Ah,  my  Theano,  I've  but  one  place  of  peace — 
Nay,  I've  not  that — your  pity-housing  bosom. 
Though  ^Eolus'  thirty  sons  made  centre  round  me, 
There  should  I  rest  as  on  a  summer  cloud 
Rose-covered  by  the  toil  of  flying  doves 
To  keep  off  heaven's  tears.     And  you  deny  it! 

The.  My  own! 

Oc.  You  do  not  love  me! 

The.  Hear  him  not, 

0  patient  Heaven ! 

Oc.  Come  to  me,  Theano. 

The.  Not  while  my  mother  lives  to  suffer  for  it. 

Oc.  My  love,  as  nature  runs,  she  must  die  first. 
Forgive  my  rudest  tongue — but  will  you  then — 
When  so  she  goes — bring  all  this  heart  to  me? 
I'm  tortured  lest  her  bitter  will  against  me 
Should  reach  back  from  the  tomb. 

The.  Ah,  my  beloved, 

The  wounds  we  give  the  dead  must  fall  unfelt. 
Then  why  should  senseless  graves  wound  life?     Ay,  then — 
Unhappy  happy  then — I'll  be  all  yours. 
[Enter  Methone,  right] 

Meth.  Mistress  Theano,  your  mother  is  strangely  ill. 

1  pray  you,  come. 


THE    SIEGE  241 


The.  O  me,  my  fatal  word! 

Oc.  Nay,  'twas  our  watchful  star  moved  me  to  urge  it. 
Let  me  go  with  you,  love,  and  strive  once  more 
To  win  the  picket  of  her  bluff  regard. 

The.  Not  now.     Wait  here  until  I  come  again. 

[Exit  Theano] 

Oc.  The  silken  bud  that  holds  a  treasured  world 
Uncaskets  nothing  in  the  hour  of  bloom, 
But  fans  the  air  with  its  own  waste  of  leaves. 
Even  so  my  hope,  that  with  the  swelling  year 
Pressed  to  a  summer  crown,  unfolds  on  naught 
And  prodigal  of  self  to  naught  is  come. 

[Goes  into  garden.  Stars  appear  in  tJie  sky  visible  be 
yond  columns,  rear.  Servants  come  out  of  the  palace 
and  set  lights  about  the  court.  Enter  Aratea  and  Aristo- 
cles  from  palace,  front.  They  cross  to  rear  and  sit  be 
tween  two  of  the  columns] 

Ara.  Aristocles  —  my  Dion's  friend  and  mine  — 
I  rest  upon  your  soul  and  feel  encirqued 
By  silent  potence,  like  the  quietude 

Of  heaven  when  gods  are  still,  —  when  prayers  come  not, 
And  enters  no  desire.     So  strange  —  this  peace. 
My  infant  eyes  oped  on  a  shaking  isle, 
And  I  was  cradled  in  my  father's  wars. 
O  soon,  too  soon,  I  knew  woe's  touch  of  death! 
But  these  are  living  days  —  days  to  be  wreathed 
With  memory's  stars,  and  circled  new  each  morn 
With  pearls  iridian  from  regretful  eyes 
That  they  —  such  days  —  can  pass. 

Aris.  Eternity 

Looked  once  upon  the  wrorld,  where  lingers  yet 
Some  brightness  of  her  eye  that  we  call  Time. 
Can  aught  so  fleet  hold  value  of  thy  tear? 
Thou  who  hast  the  immortal  heritage? 

Ara.  I  can  not  say.     Your  mind  in  heaven  sleeps, 


242  THE    SIEGE 

And  by  the  day  you  but  recall  your  dreams; 
While  I,  my  lord,  couch  not  so  gloriously, 
And  from  the  earth  must  speak. 

Aris.  O,  not  from  earth 

[Re-enter  Ocrastes] 

Ara.  [To  Ocrastes]  Will  you  not  sit  with  us? 

Oc.  Nay,  I'll  rest  here. 

[Lies  down  on  one  of  the  long  seats] 
I  know  you  talk  of  Dion,  and  one  who  loves  him 
Brings  no  intrusive  ear, — or  if  it  is, 
'Tis  deaf  with  weariness. 

Ara.  [To  Aristocles]  He's  tempest-racked 
Between  his  love  and  friend.     Ay,  me,  the  world! 

Aris.  I'll  leave  you  now.    No  more  of  my  poor  thoughts. 
You're  wearied  with  long  listening.     [Rises] 

Ara.  O,  sir, 

Your  thoughts  are  flowers  and  your  words  their  fragrance ; 
I  do  not  hear  but  breathe  them.     Pray  you,  stay ! 

[He  slowly  resumes  his  seat.     She  looks  silently  at  the 
sky.     He  writes  on  tablet] 

Ara.  Aristocles,  thou  wilt  be  god  of  gods 
When  thou  'rt  among  those  stars ;  but  now,  O  friend, 
Come  nearer  earth.     Be  mortal  for  my  sake. 
I'm  fearful  when  you're  gone,  or  when  your  soul 
Keeps  court  so  far  above  me. 

Aris.  I'll  read  to  you. 

Ara.  What  you  have  written  there? 

Aris.  No — no — 'tis  nothing. 

Ara.  Ah,  do  not  read  to-night.     I  am  so  lonely 
That  even  with  a  book  I  would  not  share  thee, 
Though  it  should  tempt  with  the  most  wondrous  hap 
Of  bard  or  lover  caught  in  liquid  line. 
You've  travelled  much;  tell  me  an  Egypt  tale. 
I'm  weary  of  nymphs,  and  piping  shepherd  songs, 
And  the  ever-wrangling  gods  of  blue  Olympus. 


THE    SIEGE  243 

Aris.  Then  hear  the  tale  of  Isis  as  'tis  told 
By  the  prophet-cradling  Nile  when  Lotus  buds 
Upbreathing  blow  new  seasons  of  old  dreams. 
Not  e'en  our  Venus,  dove-led,  invisible, 
More  softly  moves  to  Paphos  wood  than  she 
O'er  sleeping  earth.     Her  wings  lead  on  the  light, 
And  when  she  lifts  them  dawn  awakes. 

Ara.  Fair  Isis ! 

Aris.  She  seeks  her  brother,  self-created,  slain 
By  his  own  pride,  for  he  was  God  of  All. 
Her  tears,  like  weeping  music,  sweeten  earth, 
Nor  rests  she  till  she  finds  him. 

Ara.  Sister  Isis! 

Aris.  And  then — none  knows  how  hid  in  solitude 
She  suckles  death  with  life  till  he  new  rises 
The  God  of  All,  too  great  for  pride,  too  just 
For  death;  the  sire  of  Beauty,  breathing  Life 
Through  Love, — soul  of  the  nurturing  sun — 
The  mother-breast  of  fields — the  parent  thrill 
Of  birds,  of  trees,  of  flowers — of  all  that  makes 
Most  sweet  the  fair  world's  mortal  pageantry, — 
Yea  of  the  eternal,  vital  glow  that  throbs 
Within  humanity's  deep-rubied  heart. 
So  runs  the  myth,  dear  Aratea. 

Ara.  Ah! 

How  runs  the  rubric  of  thy  thought  that  sets 
The  symbol  plain?     Read  that  to  me,  I  pray  thee. 

Aris.  The  lonely  mind  may  not  uprafter  stars, 
And  vain,  adventurous  man  who  of  himself 
Createth  Heaven  must  see  it  fall.     Then  doth 
The  woman  spirit,  girdle  of  the  worlds, 
Above  the  ruins  cry, — his  mate  forgot 
Who  from  his  flesh  by  love's  divinity 
Calls  forth  the  beauteous  eternities 
To  star  the  globe  of  life. 


244  THE    SIEGE 

Oc.  [Rising]  Which  is  to  say, 

As  simple  people  speak  in  Sicily, 
A  man  must  wed ! 

Ara.  Ocrastes,  talk  not  so ! 

Like  stars  that  may  not  range  below  the  zenith, 
His  meaning  keeps  the  orbit  of  high  thought, 
And  will  not  dwell  in  gross  and  simple  words. 

Oc.  Ho,  mistress  Dion,  you  too  would  like  to  spin 
Your  cobwebs  round  the  moon !     [To  Aristocles]     Get  you 

to  Athens, 
While  you  may  say  to  Dion  she  is  true ! 

[Aristocles  tries  to  speak] 

O,  ay,  I  know  what  you  would  say,  my  lord. 
You  would  not  love  Aurora  though  she  dropped 
Her  morning  mantle  at  your  feet  and  blushed 
Herself  re  vestured.     No!     But  Aratea! 
She  has  a  human  heart, — eyes  that  can  fill 
With  tears, — soft  hands  that  love  the  thing  they  touch, — 
A  body  that  might  be  the  ivory  cup 
Delight  doth  use  to  dip  and  measure  out 
The  rose-flood  of  her  pleasure.     Go,  I  say! 
Take  to  the  sea,  and  leave  no  track  my  sword 
May  follow.     [Rushes  into  garden] 

Ara.  Sir,  forgive  his  madness!     Ah, 
He  is  distracted  by  these  wrongs  to  Dion. 
I  have  not  told  you,  friend,  that  Dionysius 
To-day  seized  all  possessions  of  my  lord, 
And  stopped  all  moneys  to  him.     In  this  deed 
Ocrastes  reads  the  preface  to  new  woes, 
Which  shakes  his  mind's  security  and  gives 
A  living  color  to  his  fantasies. 

[Aristocles  stands  gazing  out.,  not  showing  his  face] 

But  Heaven  and  I  know  your  white  soul,  my  lord 

[Enter  Callorus,  from  palace,  larger  entrance,  with  guards] 

Callo.  Your  pardon,  worthy  sage  and  fairest  lady. 


THE    SIEGE  245 

I  come  from  Dionysius,  whose  care 

Has  bared  a  plot  against  Aristocles, 

Whom  he  for  safety  bids  repair  at  once 

To  the  castle  fort,  where  he  must  rest  to-night 

In  sure  protection  of  the  royal  guards. 

Ara.  The  guards?     The  royal  guards? 

Callo.  You  will  make  haste, 

My  lord?     Before  the  people  move  against  you. 
Hearing  that  Dion  has  set  sail  with  troops 
To  level  Syracuse,  they  think  'tis  by 
Your  aid  and  counsel.     Pray  you,  lose  no  time. 

Aris.  I'll  go  with  you,  Callorus.     Not  from  fear, 
But  to  keep  riot  down  that  else  might  shake 
The  city's  peace.     [To  Aratea]     Farewell. 

[Exeunt  Aristocles,  Callorus  and  guards,  by  street] 

Ara.  Farewell?     I  could  not  speak. 

The  tyrant's  guards!     They  hate  Aristocles. 
My  fears  have  now  a  shape  and  short  will  show 
Their  foulest  face.     I  must  take  means  at  once 
To  learn  the  truth.     My  careful  Dionysius, 
I  will  be  vigilant  too. 

[Turns  to  go  in.     Picks  up  a  bit  of  paper] 

'Tis  what  he  wrote 

And  said  'twas  nothing.     O, — a  pretty  rhyme ! 
[Reads] 

Thine  eyes  are  on  the  stars,  my  Star! 

Would  I  might  be 
That  heaven  far 

With  thousand  eyes  on  thee! 

He  is  a  poet.     Ay,  'tis  but  a  rhyme. 

And  yet — 'tis  very  pretty — I  will  keep  it. 

[Re-enter  Ocrastes  from  garden.  He  approacJies  Aratea 
as  if  he  ivould  speak,  but  she  hurries  into  palace,  en 
trance  front,  iviihout  seeing  him.  He  retires  in  gloom 


246  THE    SIEGE 

as  Dionysius  and  a  train  of  lords  come  out  of  palace, 
large  entrance,  rear] 

Diony.  Come,  friends!       Now  is  the  sweetest  garden 

hour, 

When  day's  dust-fouled  trail  is  passed,  and  night 
Has  not  yet  donned  her  moist  and  heavy  cloak. 

[They  cross  to  garden] 

Here  let  us  wait  the  lords.     We've  summoned  all 
Of  golden  purse  and  of  right  noble  line. 
Now  that  we've  stopped  all  revenues  to  Dion, 
And  this  night  give  our  sister  to  a  husband 
Of  our  own  choosing 

Oc.  Dionysius ! 

Diony.  Ha!    You,  Ocrastes?      Know  to  whom  you 
speak ! 

Oc.  My  lord,  you  would  not  dare 

Diony.  Not  dare?     That  word 

Is  strange  to  me.     Will  some  good  scholar  here 
Tell  me  its  meaning? 

Oc.                            Pardon,  mighty  lord. 
I  sought  to  warn  you  that  the  wife  of  Dion 

Diony.  Your  blood  moves  hotly  off  in  Dion's  cause, 
And  warning  from  our  chief  suspected  foe 

Oc.  This  arm  has  fought  your  battles,  sir! 

Diony.  Ay,  so. 

Would  we  might  rank  your  famous  valiancy 
Once  more  with  us,  but  while  we  doubt  your  heart 
You  are  our  enemy. 

Oc.  What  proof,  my  lord 

Diony.  We'll  find  it  soon  enough.     Till  then  have  care, 
And  dainty  walk  'tween  wolf  and  precipice ! 

[Dionysius  and  lords  go  into  garden] 

Oc.  To  cry  this  wrong  would  give  the  sea  new  tongue, 
And  mend  the  winds  with  utterance !     But  now 
No  time  for  sighs  and  groans.     The  tyrant's  brow 


THE    SIEGE  247 

Is  hung  with  murder's  cloud.     I  must  be  quick 
Or  lose  the  breath  ties  me  to  upper  earth. 
Action  must  take  the  vantage  now  of  thought, 
And  reason  follow  after. 

[Re-enter  Theano,  from  palace] 

The.  I  was  long. 

.  .  .  She's  better  now,  and  quiet. 

Oc.  Better?    Who? 

The.  Who?— O!    My  mother. 

Oc.  Fie,  does  she  yet  live? 

The.  O  gentle  gods! 

Oc.  All  women  now  should  die. 

The.  Ocrastes! 

Oc.  Do  not  stare.     Thine  eyes  are  not 

The  only  home  of  agony.     Farewell ! 

TJie.  Farewell?     No,  no!     [Clinging  to  him] 

You'll  tell  me  first!    What  is  it? 
WTill  you  not  trust  me? 

Oc.  'Tis  thy  trust  I  want. 

The.  Thou  hast  it. 

Oc.  Swear  'tis  mine. 

The.  My  lover! 

Oc.  Swear ! 

Thy  trust !    Thy  perfect  trust ! 

The.  'Tis  thine.     I  swear  it. 

Oc.  Though  fiends  of  doubt  hail  thee  on  every  side, 
Venting  their  slander  from  the  mouth  of  winds, 
Yet  wilt  thou  trust  me? 

The.  Ay,  my  lord,  I  will! 

[Lords  begin  to  enter  from  the  garden] 

Oc.  Once  more  to-night  I'll  see  thee.     Go! 

The.  My  love! 

Oc.  Go,  go! 

[Theano  goes  into  palace.     Dionysius  comes  from  garden. 
Ocrastes  moves  aside  and  stands  in  shadow] 


248  THE    SIEGE 

Diony.  'Tis  time  our  sister  should  be  told 

Our  happy  purpose. 

A  lord.  She  is  here. 

[Aratea  re-enters,  and  hastens  across  to  Dionysius] 

Ara.                                           My  brother, 
I  came  to  seek  you.     Lord  Aristocles 

Diony.  Ay,  troubles  press  upon  us,  dearest  sister, 
And  much  is  trembling  in  adventure's  hand. 
Now  do  we  need  your  husband's  strength  to  meet 
111  fortune's  tide. 

Ara.  Then  you  have  sent  for  Dion? 

O,  you  forgive ! 

Diony.  Speak  not  that  traitor's  name! 

He  is  the  foe  'gainst  whom  I  must  go  forth. 
You  are  to  wed  a  lord  whose  might  shall  be 
My  own.  To-night!  Dost  hear? 

Ara.  Ay,  Dionysius. 

Diony.  And  art  not  pleased?     No  thanks  that  I  provide 
For  your  forsaken  state?     Now,  now!     One  word. 
Stand  not  so  fixed,  as  I  had  ordered  you 
To  instant  death. 

Ara.                    You  make  me  marble,  sir. 
Unloose  my  soul's  locked  torture  with  the  key 
Of  one  retracting  word,  or  I  must  seek 
In  kinder  stone  my  sole  relief  from  pain. 
O,  say  it  is  not  so !     This  is  a  jest 
Will  make  you  weep  when  you 

Diony.  Jesting  to  fools! 

Not  throned  skies  can  change  what  we've  determined. 
This  rebel  brow  shocks  my  fond  heart  that  toils 
In  your  ungracious  service.     Come,  my  friends. 
All  to  the  council  hall !     With  me,  my  sister. 

Ara.  O,  brother,  not  one  moment  to  look  back 
And  say  farewell  to  Heaven?     Not  one  to  gaze 
Into  the  darkness  ere  I  plunge  to  hell? 


THE    SIEGE  249 

Diony.  And  let  the  hour  'tween  my  intent  and  deed 
Lay  meddling  finger  on  my  pnrpose?     Nay, 
You  know  me  better,  madam.     On  my  lords ! 
Delay's  the  whetstone  sharpens  best  the  blades 
Of  enemies. 

Ara.  Go,  sir!     I  am  myself. 
I  will  not  move.     If  you  will  tear  me  hence, 
And  drag  your  father's  daughter  at  your  feet, 
Then  you  may  take  me  to  the  council  hall. 

Diony.  Your  pleasure,  sister.  Here  we'll  hold  our  court. 
Go,  Clitus,  to  the  steps  and  turn  all  hither. 

Ara.  Art  thou  my  brother,  Dionysius?     Nay! 
We  are  of  different  mothers.     Now  I  know 
We  are  of  different  fathers,  too. 

Diony.  You  dare! 

Silence  thy  slanderous  tongue! 

Ara.  I  say  thou  'rt  not 

My  royal  father's  son! 

Diony.  His  sword  is  mine! 

[Seizes  her  in  a  rage,  threatening  her  with  his  weapon; 
then  slowly  releases  her  and  she  sinks  to  bench  by  pillar 
of  the  colonnade.  Lords  assemble,  some  talking  ex 
citedly  but  in  undertone,  others  cool  and  scoffing.  Speu- 
sippus  and  friends  enter,  taking  inconspicuous  place. 
Ocrastes  keeps  in  shade,  motionless  and  unnoticed} 

A  lord.  Ha,  Calisthenes,  you  need  not  come  to  bite  at 
this  bait.  'Tis  a  dainty  morsel  and  only  goldfish  are  al 
lowed  to  nibble. 

An  old  lord.  I  mislike  this  marriage.  'Twill  bring  us 
woe,  let  it  reach  Dion's  ears. 

Another.  Ay,  wars  beyond  our  guess  will  come  of  it. 

Young  lord.  The  admiral  against  ^Egisthus! 

Second  young  lord.  Heraclides?  He  is  much  wived 
already. 

Third  young  lord.  The  easier  to  take  another. 


250  THE    SIEGE 

Second  young  lord.  ^Egisthus  bids  most  fair.     I  take  you. 

Diony.  My  friends,  would  that  I  had  for  each  of  you 
So  fair  a  sister,  and  were  not  thus  forced 
To  choose  among  you.     Who  is  first  to  speak? 

Her.  I  pray  this  gift,  my  lord. 

Diony.  Brave  admiral, 

You  would  stand  high,  perhaps  the  highest  with  us, 
Were 't  not  that  old  wives  make  new  enemies. 

Icetes.  I'm  free  to  give  my  undivided  heart. 

Diony.  But,  good  Icetes,  age  is  creeping  on  you. 
We  want  a  fighting  arm  as  well  as  heart. 
Who  else?     No  voice?     Must  we  then  hawk  her  up? 
Look  on  her,  gentlemen !     Even  tears  may  not 
Disfigure  her.     This  fit  of  sorrow  past 
You'll  see  her  smile  again,  those  wondrous  smiles 
You've  longed  in  secret  to  make  all  your  own. 
A  week,  a  day,  will  put  some  spirit  in  her. 

Ara.  [Rising]  To  you,  my  lords  of  Syracuse !     Think  not 
To  wed  the  wife  of  Dion  as  she  stands. 
You'll  pluck  no  rose  in  me.     This  face  I'll  sere 
With  constant  travelling  tears,  till  Beauty  here 
Shall  search  in  vain  for  memory  of  herself. 
My  wealth  I'll  fling  upon  the  air  to  birds 
And  beggars.     Ay,  my  palace  shall  take  wings! 
My  costly  robes  I'll  cast  into  the  street 
That  common  women  may  adorn  themselves. 
I  am  no  princess.     I  refuse  the  name 
Of  aught  that  makes  me  sister  to  that  wretch. 
Go  seek  some  linen  washer  by  a  brook 
And  find  a  wealthier  and  a  prouder  wife. 

Diony.  Spoke  I  not  truth,  my  lords?    You  see  how  fast 
Her  spirit  grows.     Hear  her  sweet  names  for  me? 
Now  we'll  have  bidders  plenty.     Thanks,  my  sister. 
She'll  sing,  my  lords,  when  once  she's  neatly  caged. 

Mgisikus.  I  beg 


THE    SIEGE  251 

Callorus.  My  lord 

Diony.  'Tis  fit  you  both  should  speak 

At  once,  for  both  alike  sit  in  my  favor. 
JSgisthus'  lands  are  broad,  but  you,  Callorus, 
Have  proved  a  mightier  leader  in  the  field, 
And  all  in  all  you  do  deserve  alike. 
There's  none  may  rank  above  you. 

Oc.  [Stepping  out]  One,  my  lord. 

JEg.  There's  none! 

Catto.  Let  him  come  forth! 

Diony.  Who,  sir?    His  name. 

Oc.  Ocrastes. 

Diony.  You? 

Mg.  Ha,  ha! 

Oc.  Why  not,  my  lord? 

Diony.  You're  Dion's  heart.     You  cast  him  off? 

Oc.  You  ask 

For  proof?     I  take  his  wife.     Were  I  to  warm 
My  fingers  in  his  blood,  I'd  have  more  hope 
That  he  would  rise  and  bless  me  than  to  keep 
His  love  while  she  lies  on  my  bosom. 

Ara.  O! 

Oc.  I  challenge  any  here  to  match  my  claim. 
This  is  the  sword,  my  lord,  that  held  the  city 
Against  the  Taren  tines  when  these  brave  nobles 
Trembled  behind  their  fast  shut  doors. 

Mg.  'Tis  false! 

Oc.  All  know  'tis  true.     Since  boasting  now's  a  virtue, 
I'll  do  it  well.     Who  wore  the  laurel  wreath 
That  saved  all  Sicily  a  spreading  blush 
The  day  the  Carthaginian  youths  were  sent 
Defeated  home?     You  ask  for  wealth?     My  vineyards 
Run  to  the  wilderness.     My  corn  now  greens 
On  ^Etna's  slope  and  yellows  by  the  Gela. 
My  father's  coffers  are  unopened  yet, 


THE    SIEGE 

And  ships  are  sailing  here  will  fill  my  own. 

My  slaves  might  meet  an  army,  and  I'll  put 

A  sword  in  every  hand  for  Syracuse. 

In  rank  I  bow  to  none.     The  blood  of  Pollis, 

First  king  of  Syracuse,  runs  yet  in  me, 

And  even  Dionysius'  royal  self 

Yields  to  my  line  the  birthright  courtesy. 

Diony.     Enough.      Now    Dion's    cause    falls    down. 

Enough ! 

Come  to  our  heart,  Cerastes !     There's  not  one 
We'd  rather  win  to  us. 

Speu.  [Aside]  O,  Dion,  now  all 

Forsake  thee  but  calamity,  that  like 
A  covetous  ill  wife  hangs  on  thy  fortune ! 

Diony.  By  Pluto,  no  more  fear !     Our  throne  is  safe ! 

Oc.  My  lord 

Diony.  Nay,  brother! 

Oc.  Pray  be  warned  by  one 

Who  knows  too  well  your  need.     Not  all  the  troops 
Of  broadest  Sicily  may  keep  you  safe 
When  Dion  comes  from  Greece.     Men  swarm  to  him 
As  he  were  golden  Saturn  giving  off 
New  fortunes  with  each  breath.     Send  me  with  speed 
To  Italy.     There  I  have  friends  shall  be 
Your  own,  and  pour  a  fleet  into  your  harbor 
Will  turn  lord  Dion  pale  when  next  his  eye 
Scans  Syracusan  waters. 

Diony.  Italy? 

We'll  think  of  it.     You're  the  true  warrior  stuff, 
Planning  campaigns  with  the  same  breath  you  win 
A  royal  bride.     We  like  you  better  for  it, 
But  she  may  like  you  less.     Give  her  a  word. 

Oc.  O,  fairest  woman  that  ever  made  the  earth 
More  sweet  and  beauteous  to  live  upon, 
You'll  find  in  me  a  true  and  gentle  lord. 


THE    SIEGE  253 

These  tears  I'll  teach  to  run  a  smiling  race 
And  in  a  happy  death  forget  their  birth. 

[Attempts  to  embrace  her] 

Ara.  Open  the  prisons,  call  some  convict  forth, 
And  I  will  wed  him,  but  not  you !     These  lords 
Have  hated  Dion,  have  not  lived  upon 
His  constant  kindness.     You  have  drunk  his  love 
Like  flowing  wine,  and  lived  by  it ! 

Oc.  Rail  on, 

If  railing  pleases  you.     In  aftertime 
You'll  love  the  better  for  it. 

Diony.  Right!     Give  her  leave, 

And  she  will  stroke  you  where  she  meant  to  strike. 

Ara.  You  love  Theano! 

Oc.  Ah, — I  did,  perhaps, 

A  thousand  years  ago.     All  now's  forgot 
But  that  thou  mayst  be  mine. 

Ara.  O,  false 

Oc.  O  true! 

What  was  scarce  fair  to  impossessing  eyes, 
Perfection  is  when  gods  have  made  it  ours. 
Thou  wilt  forgive  me  that  I  loved  thee  not 
While  thou  wert  Dion's,  for  my  eyes  were  sealed 
By  loyalty  to  him.     But  this  divorce 
That  frees  thee  gives  me  sight.     I  see,  and  love. 
And  by  that  love  still  dost  thou  grow  more  fair. 
For  is  not  love  a  second,  truer  eye, 
Finding  out  beauty  where  the  first  could  not? 
No  more!     We'll  plead  hereafter.     'Tis  an  hour 
To  win,  not  woo.     Swords  must  be  burnished,  sails 
Must  meet  the  wind ! 

Ara.  Are  you  Ocrastes?     No! 

O,  no!     He  is  the  son  of  Dion's  love, 
And  you  would  wed  his  wife.     He  was  a  poor 
Forsaken  babe,  his  mighty  heritage 


254  THE    SIEGE 

Plunder  for  any  thief.     'Twas  Dion  then 
Became  his  father,  gave  him  life  and  wealth, 
And  that  sweet  breeding  that  till  now  did  show 
So  fair  in  him.     Ocrastes  owes  him  all 

Oc.  Ay,  all!    E'en  wisdom.     He  would  call  me  fool 
Stayed  I  from  market  when  thy  richest  self 
Courts  any  passing  bid.     Since  he  must  lose 

Am.  Nay,  every  touch  will  be  a  three-fold  shame 
Robbing  a  husband,  benefactor,  friend. 
My  eyes  will  mirror  those  reproachful  days 
When  Dion's  care  was  fond  about  us  both. 
His  kisses  guard  my  lips.     His  praise  of  you 
Will  block  your  words  in  my  assaulted  ears. 

Oc.  You  know  me  not.     My  words  shall  be  love's  fire 
Burning  the  track  of  Dion's  pale  discourse. 
My  kisses  on  your  lips  hold  festal  war 
With  his  till  they,  poor  ghosts,  shall  flee.     And  dews 
Of  happiness  shall  wash  all  pictures  out 
From  your  fair  eyes  but  my  enthroned  own 
Which  hourly  I'll  new-set  in  their  fair  glass! 

Ara.  I  called  you  brother!  .  .  .  O,  my  lords,  I  beg — 
Some  one  of  you — to  take  me  for — your — wife. 

[Faints.     Ocrastes  supports  her.    Curtain} 


ACT   III 

SCENE   1.  A   chamber  in  the  palace.     Nauresta  on  bed 
asleep.     Phillistus  watching. 

Phil.  This  poison's  swift.    Here  is  her  cup.    Why  palter? 
A  drop  will  do  it.     [Gazes  at  her] 

'Tis  when  we  sleep  the  touch 
Of  life  is  gentlest.     Even  affliction's  kiss 
Falls  like  a  rose  upon  the  sense-shut  lid. 
Then  he  most  miserable  is  as  the  happy, 
And  who  so  happy  that  is  not  then  more  blest? 
And  since  that  death  is  sleep's  eternal  sum, 
Why  should  I  pause,  nor  grant  this  precious  good? 
O,  I  could  moralize  me  to  a  god 
Who  holds  the  cup  of  bliss  for  lip  beloved. 
Nauresta,  drink,  and  in  this  little  drop 
Sip  everlasting  ease.     [Pours  poison] 

'Tis  done.     I've  reached 

From  mortal  shores  and  opened  Hades'  gate. 
Ay,  with  the  gesture  of  a  hand  have  hooked 
Eternity. 

Nau.  [Waking]  Phillistus,  you? 

Phil.  'Tis  I, 

Beloved  Nauresta. 

Nau.  Flowers!     You  have  brought  them? 

Phil.  Can  I  forget  you  love  them? 

Nau.  Ah,  my  friends! 

255 


256  THE    SIEGE 

They  wear  no  frown  to  dash  down  hearts;    nor  chide 
When  ears  are  sick  for  quickening  praise ;  but  yield 
Their  royal  payment  for  each  passing  care; 
No  vagrant  dew  gives  them  its  moistening  heart 
But  they  must  pay  it  thrice  in  perfumed  beauty, 
And  bury  it  as  never  king  shall  lie. 
O  human  faces,  might  ye  turn  to  flowers, 
How  many  broken  hearts  would  live  again! 

Phil.  This  is  a  covert  chiding  of  my  faults, 
So  deep  repented,  love.     I'll  make  thee  happy. 

Nau.  My  gentle  daughter — she  that  I  could  call 
A  sister  to  this  rose — her  mute  complaints 
Cry  like  dumb,  wounded  birds  to  my  sore  heart, 
And  I  pass  by  nor  help.     For  what,  Phillistus? 
That  you  may  wear  a  crown  in  Syracuse. 
A  crown  that  is  the  golden  nest  of  cares, 
Brooded  by  every  dismal  wing  may  hatch 
An  enemy  to  peace. 

Phil.  And  when  didst  grow 

So  wise,  Nauresta? 

Nau.  Midnight  hours  teach  well. 

Some  sleepless  nights  would  help  you  too,  I  think. 
Wise?     Ay,  and  not  too  late!     I'll  be  no  more 
Your  shield  while  you  make  thrust  at  brave  Ocrastes. 
I'll  give  him  my  Theano. 

Phil.  Does  he  know? 

Nau.  Not  yet.     I  weakly  thought  to  pay  old  love 
The  grace  of  first  confession. 

Phil.  [Kissing  her  hand]  Thanks  for  that. 
This  sudden  turning  of  a  heart  long  loyal 
Has  left  me  numb.     You  know  how  dear  my  purpose 
That  she  should  wed  a  lord  of  my  own  faction. 
Give  me  an  hour,  but  one,  before  you  speak. 
You  break  the  bough  that  held  my  care-built  nest, 
And  old  wings  go  not  blithely  after  straw. 


THE    SIEGE  257 

Nau.  They've  learned  to  wait,  and  who  would  count 

an  hour 

Before  the  long  day  of  unbroken  love? 
.  .  .  I'm  weary  now,  Phillistus. 

Phil.  Rest  thee,  sweet. 

[S}ie  sleeps] 

Ah,  not  too  soon  I  spiced  her  cup.     The  way 
Grows  perilous,  and  I  must  mount  with  care 
To  my  high  seat,  lest  I  should  rise  to  fall; 
For  though  the  path  to  crowns  be  long  and  slant, 
There's  no  way  down  but  by  a  precipice. 

[Enter  Theano  bearing  an  urn  which  she  places  on  table 
by  cup] 

The.  You're  faithful,  sir.     [Bends  over  Nauresta] 
Her  brow  is  calm  again. 

Phil.  Now  were  I  ill  'twould  quickly  make  me  well 
To  have  so  fair  a  face  above  my  bed. 

The.   Hear,  my  lord,  you'd  die  ere  mine  should  be  there ! 

Phil.  Surely  'tis  no  offence  to  call  you  fair. 

The.  Beauty  lives  not  upon  your  commendation, 
Nor  with  your  silence  dies.     Spare  me,  my  lord, 
The  cymbal  clap  of  words  that  add  no  jot 
To  fairness. 

Phil.         Pardon  me,  dear  girl.     I  was 
Your  father's  friend 

The.  I  strive  not  to  forget  it. 

Phil.  And  could  I  have  your  love 

The.  All  that  is  good 

In  you  I  love.     Now  thou'st  the  measure,  sir, 
For  my  affection.     Is  it  small  enough? 

Phil.  By  heaven,  you  do  not  mince  it! 

Nau.  [Waking]  Is  that  my  daughter? 

The.  See,  mother,  I  have  brought  this  drink  for  you. 

[Pours  beverage  into  cup  and  offers  to  Nauresta] 
There's  health  in't.     Is  there  not,  Phillistus? 


258  THE    SIEGE 

Phil.  Ay, 

Health  and  long  life.     [Nauresta  drinks] 

Nau.  There's  virtue  in  the  cup. 

Even  now  I'm  better. 

The.  Now? 

Nau.  O,  I  could  rise! 

[Sits  up] 

The.  No,  dear.     Be  patient  yet. 

Nau.  Nay,  I'll  be  up! 

Pray  call  Methone,  love,  to  dress  me.  .  .  .  Ah, 
Whence  comes  this  lighter  heart?     How  good  to  have  it! 
I  feel  like  a  new-pardoned  prisoner 
Tasting  the  air.     Smile,  sweet!    Those  lily  lids 
Shall  droop  no  more  with  woe  I  lay  upon  them. 

[Enter  Methone  with  robes] 
Now,  now,  Methone,  make  me  young  again. 
O,  not  that  robe !     'Tis  for  a  grandame  that. 
My  sky-gray  mantle  with  its  falling  softness 
Broidered  like  sunset  clouds! 

[Exit  Methone] 

The.  I  beg  you,  sweet 

Nau.  Wilt  smooth  my  hair?     Nay,  let  it  be  as  'tis. 
This  way.   Ah — now —     [Falls  back]  O!  Help  me!  Help: 
Let  go,  ye  furies ! 

The.  Mother! 

Meth.  [Entering]  Mistress!  mistress! 

Nau.  'Tis  poison!  poison!     I  am  murdered.     O! 

My  daughter — tell  her — tell  her — ah — Ocrastes 

[Dies] 

The.  Have  mercy,  Heaven !     O,  Phillistus,  help  her ! 

[Faints.     Phillistus  holds  her] 

Phil.  [To  Methone]  Go  call  your  comrades  here, 

[Exit  Methone] 
Even  now  you're  mine. 
Ocrastes!     Ha!    Her  last  word  was  his  name. 


THE    SIEGE  259 


I'll  turn  this  crook  of  fortune  to  account, 
And  make  a  god  of  accident. 

The.  [Reviving]  O!  O! 

Misfortune  makes  my  heart  her  sanctuary. 
So  many  woes  take  shelter  there. 

Phil.  One  woe 

You  have  escaped.     Cerastes'  wicked  love. 
O  villainous !     I  dare  not  think  of  it ! 
That  he  would  poison  one  so  dear  to  you- 


The.  Man,  man,  care  for  your  soul !     There  is  no  stain 
So  black  as  when  the  gall  of  calumny 
Breaks  on  the  snow  of  virtue !     You  must  rate 
Your  precious  life  at  naught.     Ocrastes,  sir, 
Will  have  your  slanderous  heart  for  this! 

Phil.  He  may, 

If  'tis  your  wish.     You  heard  her  cry  his  name 
As  though  she  saw  her  murderer. 

The.  She  cried— 

Ah,  yes — I  heard —    What  did  she  mean? 

Phil.  The  truth. 

The.  Make  me  not  mad! — He's  never  entered  here. 

Phil.  Why  should  he  when  a  little  gold  will  buy 
A  hand  for  any  deed? 

The.  The  gold— the  gold 

He  gave  to  Brentio!     Dear  Juno,  help! 
My  mind  strays  from  me. 

Phil.  Hast  not  found  him  changed? 

Full  of  quick  passions — contradictions — words 
Of  broken  point?     Seen  shadows  on  his  face 
As  though  his  mind  were  brooding  darker  matter 
Than  could  be  kept  within 't  ?     Bethink  thee  well, 
For  memory's  eye  reflective  oft  repeals 
The  confirmation  of  the  grosser  sight, 
And  what  so  pleased  the  entertained  sense 
Shows  in  her  studied  glass  a  fearful  front. 


260  THE    SIEGE 

The.  O,  stop  thy  tongue  of  death !   My  promise  to  him — 
So  strangely  asked — so  strangely  given !     O ! 

Phil.  Thy  mother's  word 

The.  O,  let  me  die,  die,  die! 

Phil.  My  girl,  all  things  that  be  may  be  endured. 
Death  does  not  come  for  this  or  that  affliction, 
But  when  'tis  time  to  knock.     Up,  sweet  Theano! 
By  fortune's  rudder,  wheel  and  horn  of  bounty, 
You  shall  rise  fair  above  this  foul  mischance! 
[Re-enter  Methone] 

Meth.  My  lady,  lord  Ocrastes  begs  to  see  you. 

The.  No,  no!    Not  now. 

Phil.  Ay,  see  him  now,  Theano. 

Show  him  the  burden  of  this  bed,  nor  let 
The  damned  simulation  of  his  eye 
Deceive  you.     Bravely  tell  him  to  his  face 
None  better  knows  the  gate  she  came  by  death. 

The.  You  lie !  .  .  .  And  yet  I  can  not  see  him  now. 
Though  he  is  innocent,  my  wicked  promise 
Burns  like  accusing  fire  by  this  dear  form. 

Meth.  Mistress,  he  comes! 

Phil.  I'll  leave  you  with  him.     Courage! 

[Phillistus  retreats  to  curtains,  left.     Enter  Ocrastes] 

The.  You  dare  come  here? 

Oc.  I  dare? 

The.  O,  see,  Ocrastes, 

What  lieth  here !     The  shell  of  what  even  now 
Was  she  who  gave  me  birth. 

Oc.  Not  dead?    Ah,  love! 

The.  Call  me  not  love!    Not  here — and  now.     O,  go! 

Oc.  Theano! 

The.  Touch  me  not !    My  doubt  will  make 

Your  hand  a  thing  of  fire ! 

Oc.  Dear  heart,  fend  off 

This  sea  of  woe  or  'twill  sweep  reason  with  it. 


THE    SIEGE  261 

I  could  be  wild  with  strange  tilings  that  I  know, 
And  came  to  tell  you  of,  but  for  your  sake 
I'm  calm. 

The.     Dost  know,  sir,  she  was  poisoned? 

Oc.  Poisoned? 

Forgive  me,  love.     Be  mad  now  as  thou  wilt, 
Still  thy  distraction  will  be  stinted  measure 
For  grief  so  dark.     Poisoned !     O,  who 

The.  Who?  Who? 

That  is  the  question  thrusts  me  like  a  sword. 
All  loved  her — all.     She  had  no  enemy. 

Oc.  [Calmly]  You  spoke  of  doubt.     What  did  you  mean, 
Theano? 

The.  Leave  me,  Cerastes !     Go ! 

Oc.  Phillistus 

The.  No! 

He  loved  her  well.     That  was  his  touch  of  Heaven. 
O,  who  had  cause  but 

Oc.  Do  not  say  it.     I  go. 

Not  deity  descending  from  the  skies 
To  make  our  peace  could  now  unite  us.     Ay, 
Thou  'rt  dead  to  me  as  that  cold  body. 

The.  Oh-h!    [Swoons] 

Oc.  And  in  that  bosom  did  I  come  to  set 
A  purpose  I'd  not  whisper  now  to  death 
Lest  his  dumb  lips  should  tattle.     Alone — alone, 
To  grapple  in  the  dark  the  beast  of  chance ! 
.  .  .  Affection  on  my  track  shall  ache  to  death, 
Friendship  in  blood  lie  mute,  and  love  I'll  tear 
From  its  high  heaven  to  plunge  like  Ate's  coals 
On  Pluto's  fire!  [Exit] 

Phil.  [Comes  fonvard  and  revives  Theano] 
Sweet  girl,  he's  gone. 

The.  [Rising]  WTiere  is  he? 

Phil.  Hell  trouble  thee  no  more. 


262  THE    SIEGE 

The.  Heat  me  the  irons! 

This  tongue  shall  be  burnt  out  that  dared  accuse  him! 

Phil.  She's  mad  indeed! 

The.  Nay,  sir,  the  cloud  of  pitch 
That  blinded  me  is  gone.     [Enter  maids}     Touch  her  not 

yet.     [Maids  stand  aside} 
Methone,  hasten  Brentio  to  find 
The  noblest  lord  in  Syracuse. 

Meth.  Who,  mistress? 

The.  Who  but  Cerastes?     Go! 

Phil.  [Approaching  her}  Theano 

The.  Sir, 

We  have  no  need  of  you.     I  pray  you,  go.    [Kneels  by  bed] 
He  will  forgive,  then  I  will  die  withtthee! 

Phil.  Nay,  by  the  gods,  should  you  so  die,  my  maid, 
Then  Sicil'  will  have  groaning  cause  'gainst  one 
Who  robs  her  country  to  make  rich  her  grave. 
Immortal  Beauty  must  herself  go  wronged 
Should  you  so  break  her  living  mould  in  you, 
And  drain  her  veins  to  your  fair  body  trusted 
For  warm  and  deathless  passage. 

The.  [Springing  up]  Are  you  man 

Or  monster  that  you  foul  this  hour  with  thought 
So  gross? 

Phil.  A  man — no  more,  no  less — who  loves 
Your  mother's  daughter.     Hate  me  as  you  will, 
I  here  adopt  your  grief, — with  oath  and  tear 
Take  it  to  love  as  my  own  child  of  woe, 
And  swear  you  faith  to  death. 

The.  The  gods,  my  lord, 

Record  not  oaths  of  men  till  they've  received 
The  confirmation  of  an  act.     I'll  wait 
Their  seal  on  yours. 

Phil.  This  night 


THE    SIEGE  263 

The.  Sir,  will  you  go? 

Stay  not  to  rouse  Ocrastes'  rage. 

Phil.  You  think 

He'll  come? 

The.         I've  sent  for  him. 

Phil.  You're  proudly  sure. 

Will  coo  your  loves  by  this  forbidding  bed? 

The.  Ay,  for  her  hovering  shade  knows  now  the  truth. 
[Enter  Heredities] 

Her.  Pardon,  my  lord,  that  I  have  sought  you  out. 
The  hour  Eke  an  unbridled  courser  needs 
Strong  hands  upon  it.     Ah, — death  here? 

Phil.  There  lies 

Delay's  excuse, — and  yet  'tis  none,  for  woe 
Whose  feast  is  but  a  heart  should  lift  no  head 
Beside  the  large  calamity  that  makes 
A  morsel  of  a  state.     How  goes  our  matter? 

Her.  Aristocles  is  locked  within  the  castle, 
In  care  of  Dionysius'  guards. 

Phil.  Ah,  then 

He's  safe. 

Her.  As  safe  as  we  could  wish,  my  lord. 
And  I've  yet  fresher  news.     Ocrastes  joins  us, 
With  wealth  and  courage  like  an  Atlas  back 
To  bear  our  venture. 

Phil.  He  revolts  from  Dion? 

Ocrastes  ? 

Her.     He,  my  lord. 

Phil.  What  works  this  change? 

Her.  A  lady's  morning  cheek  and  golden  hair. 
He  now  is  wed  to  absent  Dion's  wife. 

Phil.  What  say  you,  sir? 

Her.  The  lords  were  in  debate 

Of  who  should  have  her,  when  out  comes  Ocrastes, 


264  THE    SIEGE 

And  cries  his  claim  with  such  o'er-riding  proof 

That  Dionysius  claps  a  quick  assent 

And  all  the  court  confirm  him  sullenly. 

Ocrastes  goes  to  Italy  for  troops 

To  meet  the  force  which  Dion  brings  from  Greece 

Phil.  But  this  new  marriage!    Tell  us  more.     Belike 
I've  missed  some  sport. 

Her.  Sport?    Ha!    It  was  a  scene. 

Phil.  But  went  the  lady  to  him  willingly? 

Her.  O,  she  was  modest,  played  chameleon 
And  changed  color  rhythmically,  as  though 
A  music  of  sweet  shades  sat  on  her  cheek, 
Then  coyly  swooned,  but  her  reviving  eye, 
Methinks,  looked  kindly  on  his  youthful  beauty. 

Phil.  [Watching  Theano]  And  the  young  lord?     Did  not 

his  countenance 
Play  hers  a  blushing  match? 

Her.  Ay,  shame  and  will 

Mapped  out  his  face  between  'em,  but  short  met 
In  love's  red  constancy. 

The.  O!  O! 

Her.  Once  more 

The  lady  fainted,  but  'twas  in  his  arms. 
Ha,  ha! 

The.  And  yet  I  live! 

Phil.  How  long,  my  lord, 

Since  this  bold  comedy? 

Her.  'Tis  now  two  hours 

Behind  us. 

Phil.  [To  Theano]  Ah,  before  he  came  to  you! 
What  shameless  shame! 

The.  He  loved  me!    How — O,  why? 

Phil.  Nay,  ask  not  why.     As  well  essay  to  trace 
The  legend  that  the  soft  and  curling  foam 


THE    SIEGE  265 

Writes  on  the  shaken  wave  as  fix  love's  path 

With  steady  eye  or  his  vagaries  mark. 

Farewell  an  hour.     I'll  come  again  to-night 

To  serve  your  grief.     You'll  learn  at  last  to  trust  me, 

And  in  my  heart  seek  comfort. 

[Exeunt  Phillistus  and  Heraclides] 

The.  Oh,  oh,  oh! 

He  does  not  love  her.     Would  he  did !     I  then 
Might  honor  him  that  dared  dishonor  truth 
For  love's  almighty  sake, — but  'twas  to  save 
His  life.     Ah,  me,  his  life  that  saved  thus 
Abates  all  value  and  becomes  as  clay. 

Meth.  Sweet  mistress! 

The.  O,  O  me! 

Meth.  Stay  this  hot  flood. 

Tears  bring  no  lover  back.     Ay,  not  though  maids 
Should  weep  until  their  cheeks  were  but  a  mead 
For  two  salt  brooks  to  play. 

The.  O,  leave  me! 

Meth.  Nay 

The.  Leave  me,  I  say!    Away!      [Exit  Methone] 

O  death!     O  life!— 
Which  wears  the  darker  face?     Here  is  my  choice. 

[Falls  by  Naurestd's  body] 

[Curtain] 

SCENE  2.  A  bare  room  in  tJie  castle  fort.     Aristocles  alone. 

Aris.  They  said  a  bed  would  be  provided  me, 
But  nothing's  here.     And  nothing's  all  he  needs, 
Who  holds  himself  a  soul  stripped  of  the  world 
And  its  necessities.     [Lies  down] 

That  fellow  took 
My  cloak.     Good  luck  to  him.     Philosophy, 


266  THE    SIEGE 

Thou  art  the  only  sail  no  wind  may  drive 
Into  misfortune's  port.     How  still  the  world! 
The  silence  like  a  great  Accuser  stares, 
Full  of  dumb  curses  looking  from  large  eyes. 

[Rises  and  walks] 

...  I  will  not  see  her  more.     O,  quickly  come, 
Ye  stoic  angels  wont  to  wait  on  me, 
And  with  the  cords  of  resolution  stout 
Bind  ye  my  purpose  to  the  throne  of  Zeus 
That  it  may  shake  but  with  Olympus'  self! 
.  .  .  Will  she  not  think  me  harsh  to  leave  her  so? 
She  who  is  made  of  all  earth's  gentle  things — 
The  scent  of  morn,  the  first  green  on  the  bough, 
The  valley  dews  where  infant  blossoms  drink, 
The  going  light  with  rose  heart  yearning  back, — 
Yet  brave,  and  like  a  new  Hippolita 
Might  wear  the  belt  of  Mars.     O,  flower  of  heaven, 
Yet  wrapped  in  soft  and  strange  delirium 
Of  odors  once  Elysian!     Naught  to  me, 
Who  will  not  see  her  more.     Now  is  she  dead, 
And  I  know  but  a  grave.     I'll  sleep  .  .  .  sleep  .  .  .  sleep. 

[Lies  still.     Enter  Aratea.     She  is  veiled,  and  her  un 
bound  hair  falls  about  her  form] 

Ara.  [Drawing  inner  bolt  to  door]  I  scarce  could  bribe 

the  guard  to  let  me  pass! 
[Looks  about  room  and  sees  Aristocles] 
Asleep  ?    [Crosses  to  him.     Unveils]     Rise,  friend ! 

Aris.  [Starting]  My  dream. 

Ara.  Aristocles ! 

Aris.  [Rising]  You?   you? 

Ara.  I,  friend. 

Aris.  'Tis  you — and  yet  'tis  not. 

A  stranger  soul,  disordered  and  unknown, 
Looks  from  your  eyes. 


THE    SIEGE  267 

Ara.  My  brother's  false  to  thee. 

This  castle's  murder's  trap,  and  you  are  caught  in't! 

Aris.  I've  had  some  thought  'twas  so.     I  die  to-night? 

Ara.  No,  no!   dear  Heaven!     See! 

[Opens  door,  left]     This  inner  room. 
It  has  a  hidden  stairway  to  the  sea 
Where  waits  a  boat  will  bear  you  to  a  sail 
New-spread  for  Greece,  with  crew  that  know  the  wave 
As  though  begot  of  mermaids. 

Aris.  No!    To  make 

Presumptuous  end  of  life  is  an  offence 
To  Heaven,  but  gracious  gods  may  offer  death 
For  honorable  choice — as  they  do  now — 
And  here  I  choose  it. 

Ara.  Thy  choice  then  must  be  mine. 

My  hope  was  you  would  fly  and  hasten  Dion 
To  my  deliverance.     For  I  am  sold. 
The  cords  of  bondage  cut  in  very  flesh. 
But  ask  not  now  of  this.     This  letter  here 
Will  tell  my  lord  what  I  have  spared  you.     Go, 
Or  I've  no  hope,  and  then — by  this  bright  blade — 

[sJwwing  a  dagger} 
I  die. 

Aris.  Ah,  what  you  will!    Command  me. 

Ara.  [Moving  left}  Come! 

Into  this  chamber! 

[Exeunt,  and  in  a  moment  re-enter} 

O,  the  door  new-sealed! 
Apollo  help  us  now!  .  .  .  Did  you  not  see 
The  narrow  window  in  that  chamber? 

Aris.  Ay, 

The  stars  looked  on  us  as  we  passed,  as  though 
They  smiled  to  see  how  man  would  measure  time 
With  periods  clept  death. 


268  THE    SIEGE 

Ara.  [Fearfully]  If  you — could  leap 

Aris.  I  will. 

Ara.  'Tis  not  far  down — but  O,  the  rocks 

Jut  up  like  monsters.     No!    You  shall  not  do  it. 
'Twere  death  with  treble  pain. 

Aris.  Then  I'll  die  here. 

To  go  from  your  fair  presence  to  the  gods 
Is  hardly  change. 

Ara.  'Twould  change  the  world  that  lost  thee. 

Then  would  this  isle  uncrown  herself  of  joy, 
And  palsying  shake  beauty  from  her  lap. 
The  flowers  would  die  in  pain,  and  every  leaf 
Fast  wither,  fade  and  fall,  as  those  that  moan 
O'er  Thracian  Phyllis'  grave.     I  will  not  stay 
Without  my  friend.     Ah  no,  'twould  not  be  life. 

Aris.  The  longest  days  are  breaths,  quick-drawn  and 

short, 

The  longest  life  a  day  to  be  forgot. 
Thou  soon  wouldst  come. 

Ara.  I  could  not  find  the  way. 

'Tis  with  your  eyes,  not  mine,  I  catch  the  light 
Unalterable  upon  immortal  brows 
And  keep  my  course. 

Aris.  Nay,  thou'st  no  need  of  guide. 

Shine  out,  bright  soul,  and  dim  thy  troubling  stars. 

Ara.  [Turns  aside,  weeping]  You  do  not  know! 

Aris.  Be  true  unto  the  calm 

Of  Heaven  in  you  set.     Who  trust  to  aught 
That's  of  their  souls  externe  but  give  themselves 
As  feathers  to  the  wind. 

Ara.  [Slowly]  My  lord,  this  night, 

By  Dionysius'  force,  my  hand  was  given 
In  marriage  to  Ocrastes.     Dost  thou  hear? 
Ocrastes  sails  this  hour  for  Italy. 
Ere  he  returns 


THE    SIEGE  269 

Aris.  Thou 'st  whirled  away  my  soul! 

O  stroke  of  Dis!     O  faithless  Heaven!    He? 
Not  he!    Such  mid-hell  treachery  is  out 
Of  mortal  meaning! 

Am.  He  is  mad,  I  think. 

He  loves  me  not. 

Arts.  I'd  sport  a  madman  too! 

Wear  lunacy  as  doth  a  king  his  purple, 
If  that  would  draw  a  goddess  from  the  skies 
To  quiet  in  my  arms !     Did  it  not  strain 
Forbearance  to  the  snap  that  Dion — whose  wisdom 
Humbles  the  mouth  of  Zeus — whose  justice  is 
The  boast  of  shades  when  Rhadamanthus  blunders — 
Should  wear  the  chiefest  pearl  to  mortals  cast — 
Sweet  Beauty's  sole  extravagance — as  'twere 
A  something  to  be  stained  with  human  love 
And  gods  not  question  it?    Who  then  could  see 
It  made  the  common  booty  of  a  thief, 
Nor  break  the  cable  of  a  mind  controlled 
And  lose  the  shore  of  reason?    WTio? 

Ara.  [Kneeling]  Be  calm 

If  thou  wouldst  help  me. 

Aris.  [Not  heeding]  Pity,  weep,  weep,  weep! 
O,  from  thy  woeful  heaven  cast  a  dew 
As  universal  as  the  East  when  she 
To  every  herb  throws  pearls! 

Ara.  [Leaping  up]  The  guards!     They  come! 

But  I  go  with  thee,  sir.     'Tis  not  farewell. 

Aris.  [Calm]  Not  you.     I  die  because  Elysian  mates 
Now  summon  me.     No  need  excuses  there 
The  guest  intrusive.     Stay  thee  for  thy  call, 
Nor  but  to  save  an  hour  of  painful  breath 
Cut  ever  off  the  never  ending  day 
WTe  two  shall  walk  the  clouds  too  happy  e'en 
To  love.     Give  me  that  hope,  and  dying  now 


270  THE    SIEGE 

I  live.     Deny  it,  and  'tis  you,  not  swords, 
That  wound.     They  slay  poor  flesh,  that  gauzy  breath 
Sole  guards  from  wormy  ravage.     You  would  strike 
My  never-healing  soul!     Those  steps  of  doom 

Ara.  Hark !  Ah — they  pass !  Dear  gods,  is  there  no  way? 

Aris.  The  window. 

Ara.  No! 

Aris.  I'll  make  the  leap  and  live 

To  set  you  free! 

Ara.  No,  no!     The  rocks  would  gash 

More  cruelly  than  swords.     Wait — O !    Blest  Heaven ! 
Thou'rt  saved!    Wait  here! 

[Runs  into  inner  room] 

Aris.  Go,  spirit  beautiful! 

Her  hair  enrobes  her  like  a  parted  cloud 
That  opes  to  show  us  Heaven.  .  .  .  Give  now  my  flesh 
To  swords,  ye  gods,  but  save  me  from  the  death 
That  has  no  end!  .  .  . 

[Re-enter  Aratea,  shorn  of  her  locks,,  which  she  lays  at 
Aristocles*  feet.  Her  veil  is  draped  about  her,  conceal 
ing  her  loss] 

O!   Maimed,  my  goddess? 

Ara.  See? 

I  knew  you'd  say  me  nay.     But  now  'tis  done. 

Aris.  Those  locks  of  Venus'  gold. 

Ara.  The  dagger  served. 

Aris.  Too  well! 

Ara.  [Weaving  the  locks]  Not  so.     Now,  now  a  rope  to 

bridge 

Eternity  for  thee !     More  strands !    Lend  me 
Your  lightnings,  blessed  skies,  to  weave  this  chain ! 

Aris.  Your  flying  fingers  need  them  not. 

Ara.  More,  more! 

A  thousand  hairs,  they  say,  will  hold  a  man. 

Aris.  Ay,  one  will  do  it. 


THE    SIEGE  271 

Ara.  Merry,  my  lord?     Why  not? 

Apollo,  smile  upon  us!     I  know  we  dream. 
See  how  1  make  this  fast  ?     It  is  your  life 
I  lengthen. 

Aris.       O,  'tis  bought  too  preciously! 

[Takes  up  a  lock  and  kisses  it] 
What  waste  of  sun  and  gold! 

Ara.  Nay,  when  you're  safe, 

I'll  cast  it  to  fair  Venus  on  the  sea, 
A  votive  offering.     Look  now !     'Tis  done. 

Aris.  So  soon? 

Ara.  And  you  must  go. 

Aris.  Art  sure  'tis  done? 

Ara.  Afraid,  my  lord? 

Aris.  Afraid ! 

Ara.  You  see  'tis  finished. 

Aris.  Ay,  'tis. 

Ara.         The  window — come!     We'll  make  this  fast — 
And  then — farewell! 

Aris.  Till  I  return  with  Dion. 

Ara.  Return?     No,  no,  my  lord!     O,  come  no  more 
To  this  cursed  land.     Be  happy  in  thy  Athens. 
And  Plenty  bless  thee  as  thou  wert  her  child, 
Swelling  thy  measure  till  prosperity 
Hang  on  thy  look  like  fruit  invisible 
Dropping  to  whom  thou  wilt. 

Aris.  And  you — and  you — 

My  heart  is  dumb.     What  gods  wish  for  themselves 
Become  a  human  fortune  and  befall  thee ! 

[Exeunt.     Guards    approach   and    beat   door.     Re-enter 
Aratea] 

Ara.  Strike,  dogs !    Some  say  Apollo  fathered  him. 
O,  god  of  melody,  guard  thou  the  life 
That  beats  a  perfect  song ! 

[Door  falls  and  Domenes  enters  with  guards] 


272  THE    SIEGE 

Dom.  What!    Who  is  this? 

Am.  A  princess,  sir. 

Dom.  Where  is  the  prisoner? 

Ara.  He's  gone. 

Dom.  Gone!    How?    Where? 

Ara.  Did  not  Zeus  himself 

Steal  Ganymede?    Why  not  Aristocles? 

[Curtain]  * 


ACT    IV 

SCENE:  The  grove  of  Ceres  on  the  right,  a  temple  partly 
visible.  The  island  of  Ortygia  in  rear,  separated  from 
mainland  by  a  very  narrow  channel  with  wall  on  the 
Ortygian  side  running  off  stage  left,  to  channel  bridge 
where  the  ensuing  conflict  is  supposed  to  centre.  TJie 
island  extends  down  to  the  Lesser  Harbor,  centre  rear, 
which  widens  to  a  sea-glimpse  at  right.  On  the  island 
shore  in  the  farthest  distance  is  outlined  the  temple  of 
Artemis.  Part  of  the  Ortygian  castle  is  shown  on  an 
island,  left,  the  lower  part  concealed  by  channel  wall. 

At  extreme  left,  front,  tJie  entrance  to  Phillistus'  dwelling  is 
seen.  Between  dwelling  and  channel  a  road  leads  to 
ward  the  bridge.  At  front  of  stage  a  road  runs  left 
toward  tJie  Greater  Harbor,  and  right  toward  Epipolai, 
the  outermost  portion  of  the  city. 

On  the  rigJU,  toward  rear,  terraces  lead  up  to  the  heights  of 
Achridina.  Various  statues  are  seen,  the  largest  being 
a  Victory  at  entrance  to  grove.  Off  the  stage,  left  front, 
over  Greater  Harbor,  the  sun  is  setting,  throwing 
gradually  softening  tints  and  increasing  shadows. 

Troops  of  soldiers,  laughing  and  talking  with  citizens  in 
holiday  costume,  come  up  the  road  from  the  Greater 
Harbor  and  pass  off  toward  Epipolai.  Speusippus, 
Ascander,  and  Timoleon,  enter  from  grove  and  stand 
near  the  Victory.  At  right  front  enter  young  men 
arrayed  for  banqueting,  bearing  wreaths,  torcJies,  etc. 
They  turn  to  rear  and  pass  up  terraces  toward  Achridina. 
singing. 

273 


274  THE    SIEGE 

O,  pleasure  is  the  wing  of  Time, 
Care  his  limping,  leaden  foot ! 
Too  late,  too  late,  for  laugh  and  rhyme 
When  old  Winter's  at  the  root 
Of  desire, 
And  no  fire 
Can  thaw  the  frost  where  we  lie  mute. 

Then  come  all  and  feast  ye  now! 

Come  catch  Love,  the  pretty  rover! 
Not  a  maiden  bind  her  brow 
With  a  rose  unkissed  by  lover! 
As  a  flower 
Is  Cupid's  hour, 
And  where  he  flies  none  can  discover. 

[Exeunt  toward  the  heights  of  Achridina] 

Timoleon.  So  turns  our  war  into  a  holiday. 
Here  Dion  lands,  and  swift  the  tyrant  flies 
With  all  his  boasted  guard  into  the  castle, 
While  Syracuse  throws  open  gate  and  arms 
To  welcome  her  besieger. 

Ascander.  By  Artemis! 

Didst  see  him  marching  in? — Calippus  on 
One  side,  Aristocles  on  t'other — their  corselets  white 
Fair  shining  in  the  sun,  and  each  with  locks 
Bright  garlanded? — close  treading  them  the  guards — 
The  hundred  Grecian  guards  that  watch  by  Dion, 
Then  all  his  men  in  battle  order  placed? 

Tim.  But  when  his  trumpeter  blew  from  the  gate, 
And  all  the  people  upward  looked  in  silence 
While  he  declared  them  subjects  but  of  Heaven, 
No  wonder  that  each  eye  turned  fount  and  flowed. 

Asc.  Then  'twas  the  wet  cheek  marked  the  noble  heart, 
And  the  unwatered  eye  was  shame. 


THE    SIEGE  275 

Tim.  And  now 

His  soldiers  rove  throughout  the  city,  while 
The  people  lean  from  walls  like  branching  trees 
And  shake  a  crop  of  blessings. 

Asc.  Kisses  too! 

E'en  in  the  streets  the  women  set  their  tables, 
And  from  their  wreathed  urns  pour  Cretan  wine 
For  Dion's  men. 

Tim.  What  says  my  lord  Speusippus? 

The  only  sour-face  in  all  Syracuse. 

Speu.  And  cause  enough.     A  pretty  soldier,  sir, 
Who'd  choose  to  march  with  flowers  in  his  hand 
Like  smirking  virgin  on  Diana's  day! 
I  thought  the  tyrant  would  show  tooth  of  war 
And  not  turn  tail  and  kennel. 

Tim.  [Starting]  What  noise  is  that? 

It  cuts  the  air  unlike  a  feasting  cry. 

Speu.  By  Mars,  I  pray  our  swords  will  yet  have  airing, 
And  good  fresh  drink  too! 

Tim.  Here's  a  man,  Ascander. 

He  courts  dame  Trouble  as  she  were  his  wench. 

Speu.  Tut,  tut,  my  friends,  I've  but  a  soldier's  relish 
For  an  honest  fight.     What 's  there  to  fear?     Besides, 
I  have  a  trick  to  dodge  misfortune's  blows. 

Tim.  What 's  that,  Speusippus? 

Speu.  Why,  if  breaks  my  cup, 

I  think  what  now  an  it  had  been  my  vase 
From  Phelas'  shop?     I  break  my  vase,  and  straight 
I  cry  ho !  ho !  now  had  my  house  been  burnt 
That  were  a  woe!     But  burns  my  house  indeed, 
I  think  of  wife  and  child  who  perished  not; 
WTien  dies  my  wife  or  son,  I  thank  the  gods 
That  Death  crept  all  so  near  and  touched  not  me. 
And  when  his  certain  hour  to  clutch  me  comes 
I'll  think  of  famines,  plagues,  of  earthquakes,  floods, 


276  THE    SIEGE 

And  nations  swept  away.     And  still  I'll  cure 
Such  broad  affliction  with  the  thought  of  how 
The  Universe  itself  is  but  a  shell 
To  crackle  when  it  please  the  hand  that  made  it. 
So,  friends,  I  mend  each  woe  with  its  own  cloth 
Till  all  looks  well  again. 

Tim.  Ay,  but  the  patch 

Is  greater  than  the  garment. 

[Enter  Calippus,  hurrying] 

Speu.  Ho,  Calippus! 

Cat.  Hail,  friends!     But  stay  me  not.     I  run  to  join 
The  general  without  the  city  gates. 

Asc.  What?     Dion? 

Col.  Ay! 

Tim.  Without  the  gates? 

Cal.  'Tis  so. 

Phillistus  and  the  admiral  have  seized 
Excitement's  topping  hour  to  turn  all  hearts 
With  fear's  mad  eloquence, — saying  that  Dion 
Comes  to  avenge  his  wrongs  and  set  up  rule 
More  cruel  than  Dionysius  dared.     And  so 
This  gay  and  garlanded  humanity 
Troop  to  these  traitors,  while  lord  Dion  camps 
Without  the  city. 

Speu.  Gods!    Did  he  go  mildly? 

By  Erebus'  black  daughter,  I'd  have  turned 
And  beat  them  to  subjection.     Not  a  blow? 

Cal.  He  came  to  lift  their  yoke,  not  add  another, 
And  struck  to  heart  with  their  ingratitude 
Gave  them  their  choice,  nor  made  warlike  retort 
Beyond  to  warn  them,  with  his  finger  lifted 
To  yonder  frowning  castle,  that  the  tyrant 
Was  bayed,  not  conquered. 

Tim.  Conquered?     No! 

The  city  never  knew  a  woe  till  now. 


THE    SIEGE  277 

Speu.  Ay,  Syracuse  should  with  one  general  bray 
Cry  ass  to  Heaven.     O,  mullets  of  Abdera, 
Would  ye  be  kings,  come  reign  in  Sicily! 

Asc.  Phillistus  has  no  force  to  meet  the  foe 
Will  belch  from  that  black  fort. 

Speu.  Haste,  friends,  to  Dion! 

Col.  You'll  go? 

Speu.  What  else?     There'll  be  some  good  play  yet. 
Bray,  Syracuse,  thou  populated  ass! 

[Exeunt.  The  sunlight  fades  into  twilight,  and  the  full 
moon  rises,  right,  rear,  where  the  Lesser  Harbor  widens 
to  the  sea.  Theano  comes  out  of  Phillistus'  house  and 
places  fresh  verbenas  on  the  entrance  altar.  An  Ama 
zon  follows  her] 

The.  Though  gods  forget  me  I'll  remember  them. 
[Sees  the  Amazon]  Stand  back!     I'll  not  be  dogged! 
[The  Amazon  advances,  folds  her  arms  and  takes  station 
near  Theano,  who  turns  wearily  from  her  and  looks 
out  upon  tJie  scene] 

Well  for  this  earth 

That  Beauty  keeps  her  court  for  gods  not  men, 
Xor  clouds  for  mortal  mourning !     O,  fair  city, 
And  fairer  night,  how  strange  and  cold  your  smile 
Upon  my  heart !  .  .  .  The  slave  is  gone.     That  means 
Phillistus  comes. 

[Phillistus  enters  opposite  and  stands  in  shadow,  gazing 

at  Theano] 

Phil.  I've  little  hope  to  cheat  her  more.     Her  eyes 
Are  at  the  windows  of  my  heart  and  read 
Each  dark  recess.     Well,  let  love  go  if  't  must. 
The  joys  of  hate  are  no  less  deep, — and  she 
Is  mine!     [Approaches]     Theano?     I  am  here. 
The.  I  see. 

Phil.  My  day  of  days  has  come!     One  kiss  to  crown  it. 
Art  still  unkind?     Ah,  sweet,  where  is  the  smile 


278  THE    SIEGE 

Should  dress  thee  in  a  fairer  light  than  gilds 
The  crystal  Thetis  when  Hyperion  woos? 
What!  not  a  kiss. 

The.  This  statue's  sculptured  lips 

Are  warmer,  sir. 

Phil.  To  me! 

The.  Though  on  your  brow 

Yon  Victory  should  drop  her  high-held  wreath 
You'd  be  no  more  nor  less  than  now.     Who  wears 
The  unseen  chaplet  given  of  spirit  hands 
To  him  whose  soul  is  virtue,  needeth  not 
Ambition's  leafy  handful  that  oft  makes 
The  mortal  brow  vaunt  as  it  grew  the  trees 
Of  all  Olympus. 

Phil.  What  a  welcome  here 

For  Sicily's  new  king !    Know,  my  Theano, 
That  Dionysius  is  to  castle  beaten, 
And  treacherous  Dion  from  the  city  thrust, 
While  Heraclides  with  me  shares  the  power 
Soon  to  be  mine  alone,  for  his  fall,  too, 
Already  is  assured. 

The.  Then  thou  hast  topped 

The  very  summit  of  thy  bold  desire. 

Phil.  True!     Aspiration  now,  lit  like  a  lark 
On  Fortune's  steeple,  sings  above  all  hazard. 
My  loved  Theano,  thou'rt  queen  of  Syracuse; 
We'll  sleep  to-night  like  happy  royalty 
In  honor's  bed. 

The.  The  stone  of  Sisyphus 

Will  gather  moss  ere  that  may  be,  Phillistus. 
You  gave  the  safety  of  your  stable  house 
To  my  bewildered  grief.     'Twas  noble,  sir, 
Though  mine  was  woe  would  make  a  lion  sheathe 
His  hungry  claws  and  pass  on  softest  foot. 
But  not  for  gold  or  throne  will  I  be  yours. 


THE    SIEGE  279 

Not  for  all  sapphires  that  have  kissed  in  crowns, 
All  rubies  that  in  deepest  caves  make  day, 
Would  I  be  wife  to  you,  or  take  your  hand 
Though  to  be  plucked  into  Elysium! 

Phil.  So?    By  the  fires  of  Dis,  I'll  end  this  play! 
Dost  think  me  your  poor  slave  to  sweat  for  naught? 
An  ass  to  bear  your  pack  for  chaff  and  straw? 

The.  My  lord? 

Phil.  Did  I  risk  all  to  play  the  nurse 
Unto  your  tedious  grief  for  a  false  lover? 
All  Syracuse  knows  you  his  fool,  and  yet 
You'd  play  Penelope,  and  hope  to  sit 
With  tears  of  twenty  years  upon  your  cheeks ! 
O  stare  and  wonder,  gasp,  and  sir !  and  Ho ! 
Weep  if  you  will,  and  pray  your  baby  prayers. 
I've  done  with  ah's  and  oh's  and  niceties! 

Tlie.  O  now  this  monster  shows  its  head ! 

Phil.  Go  in!  ... 

Wilt  have  me  call  the  slave? 

The.  Beware,  Phillistus! 

Phil.  Of  what,  or  whom? 

The.  Of  Heaven,  sir! 

Phil.  Ha!  ha! 

What  powers  there  owe  not  their  reign  to  man? 
The  mind  at  holiday  makes  gods  for  sport 
And  gives  them  us  for  masters.     When  I'm  crowned 
I'll  banish  all  these  idle,  meddling  wits, 
These  boggy  brains  that  spring  with  toadstool  thrones 
Decked  with  a  deity. 

Tlie.  And  yet  the  gods 

Now  hear  thee ! 

Phil.  Say  they  do,  love  rules  'mong  gods 

As  men.     Doubt  not  they'll  wink  at  my  warm  suit. 

Tlie.  O,  thy  black  soul  will  be  the  scorn  of  devils 
When  hell  has  claimed  thee! 


280  THE    SIEGE 

Phil.  Know  me  blacker  still! 

Since  hate  must  be  the  bond  between  our  hearts, 
I'll  burn  this  into  thine — thy  father's  death 
Was  by  my  hand  made  sure,  that  I  might  woo 
Your  foolish  mother,  who  drank  in  turn  my  cup. 
Yet  shall  I  wear  the  blossom  of  your  love 
Fair  on  my  bosom,  and  the  fruit  shall  grow 
To  propagate  my  house.     So  silent,  madam? 
Is  not  this  news?     You  would  not  coo  for  me; 
May  I  not  hear  you  rave? 

The.  Who,  who  could  speak? 

Now  swirling  harpies  pluck  away  my  soul, 
And  leave  me  here  a  shell  that  yet  can  breathe! 

Phil.  Ah,  you  shall  breathe  and  live  for  me — for  me ! 

The.  O  lust,  whose  sovereign  heel  treads  life 
As  destiny  had  given  bond  and  stamp  for  't ! 

Phil.  Ay,  my  desire  would  charter  hell  for  breath 
And  blow  her  fires  to  desolate  the  world 
Ere  lose  thee  now! 

[Enter  a  messenger  from  the  bridge  road] 

Mess.  Sir,  Heraclides  begs  your  instant  aid! 
The  castled  enemy  have  darted  forth 

Phil.  How?     Where? 

Mess.  Behind  the  wall — across  the  bridge! 
Like  adder's  tongue  they've  struck  the  sleeping  city. 
Now  Heraclides  calls  for  men  to  guard 
The  channel  crossing. 

Phil.  Say  I'll  join  him  there. 

At  once !     Away ! 

[Exit  messenger] 

Phil.  [Calls]       Ragunda!    Amazon! 

[Ragunda  comes  out  of  Phillistus'  house] 
Take  in  your  charge,  and  keep  a  closer  watch. 
Your  life,  as  hers,  is  short  or  long. 

[To  Theano]      In,  madam! 


THE    SIEGE  281 

The.  Here    dies    my    faith.     O    chance-made    world, 

upheaved 
By  Demiurgus  turning  in  his  sleep! 

[Goes  in  with  Ragunda.     Enter  second  messenger] 

Mess.  O,  sir 

Phil.  Pray  put  your  periods  after  news, 
Not  'fore. 

Mess.  My  lord,  the  tyrant's  guards  have  made 
A  second  murderous  sally  from  the  castle, 
And  with  great  brands  of  flame  have  fired  the  city ! 
Now  Dionysius,  knowing  he  must  forego 
The  tyranny,  would  utterly  destroy  us, 
And  wipe  from  earthly  chronicle  the  name 
Of  Syracuse ! 

Phil.  I'll  come  .  .  .  when  I  have  turned 
A  bolt  within.     [Goes  in] 

[Enter  third  messenger] 

Third  mess.   Where  is  Phillistus? 

Second  mess.   [Pointing  to  house]  There. 

Third  mess.  The  people  rage  against  him,  and  have  sent 
Again  to  Dion,  praying  his  return. 

[Re-enter  Phillistus] 

Phil.  Dion !    He'll  come.    Then  farewell  crown  and  life ! 
Where,  men? 

Third  mess.  The  fight  is  hardest  where  the  wall 
Runs  to  the  channel. 

Phil.  On!    That  is  the  place. 

[Exeunt  toward  bridge.  The  sky  darkens,  clouding  the 
moon.  On  the  road  from  the  Greater  Harbor  enter 
men,  women,  and  children,  who  run  about  confusedly 
in  the  darkness] 

First  voice.  Where  is  the  lord  Phillistus? 

Second  voice.  Heraclides  is  wounded. 

Third  voice.  Dogs!     They  brought  this  hell  on  us! 

Voices  shrieking.  The  guards !     The  guards ! 


282  THE    SIEGE 

[Soldiers  of  Dionysius  rush  on,  road  left,  front,  carrying 
brands  which  they  cast  about.  They  seize  the  people 
and  put  all  to  the  sword] 

Soldiers.  To  Achridina !    To  the  heights !    Burn  all ! 

[Exeunt,  right,  rear,  scattering  brands,  one  of  which  lights 

the  temple  of  Ceres  seen  through  the  trees,  left.     Enter 

citizens,  left,  front.    They  carry  arms.   Burning  brands 

reveal  the  dead] 

First  citizen.    See,  friends !     Here  lie  our  pictures  as 

we'll  be 
A  moment  hence. 

Second  cit.  No  hope  now  but  in  Dion ! 
Third  cit.  [As  Dracon  enters]  Dracon ! 
Dracon.  All  lost— all  lost.     Put  up  your  swords. 
The  Carthaginian  fleet  lies  in  the  bay, 
And  by  the  sea-gate  to  the  castle  fort 
Empties  her  men  into  the  tyrant's  hand! 
Second  cit.  O  Syracuse ! 

Dracon.  And  next  upon  this  news 

Phillistus  and  the  admiral  desert  us, 
Flying  to  Dionysius. 

Voices.  Traitors!   dogs! 

Dracon.  And   now   though   Dion   should   forgive   our 

baseness 

Voices.  He  will!  he  will! 

Dracon.  His  force  and  ours  united 

Can  not  make  stand  against  the  strengthened  foe. 
Voices.  O  woeful  night!     O  bloody,  bloody  night! 
Third  cit.  Now  sword  and  fire  will  make  such  havoc 

'mong  us 

There  '11  not  be  breath  enough  in  all  the  city 
To  say  good-morrow  to  the  sun. 

[Cheers  without,  right,  front.  Enter  a  warrior  at  the 
head  of  troops.  He  wears  helmet  and  carries  shield] 


THE    SIEGE  283 

Warrior.  Shame,  shame! 

O,  Syracusans,  shame!     If  ye  be  men, 
Let  battle  take  the  garb  of  order,  and  death 
Array  itself  in  decency!     I've  brought 
A  band  of  noble  Leontines  to  strike 
With  who  shall  prove  no  coward!     Lift  your  swords 
Till  Victory  sees  them  shining  through  the  night 
And  knows  which  way  to  bend  her  doubtful  wings! 
On,  on,  my  men!     On,  Syracusans,  on! 

[All  go  off  left,  cheering.     Enter  Gylippus,  right,  rear, 
wounded] 

Gylippus.  I'll  drop  me  here   till    flame   or   steel   o'er- 
take  me.  [Falls  down] 

Menodes.  [Entering]  Gylippus?     Wounded? 

Gy.  Deep  enough.     No  matter. 

Wounds  are  Bellona's  favors.     Do  you  bleed? 

Men.  I  lose  an  arm.     'Twas  a  warm  kiss  that  took  it. 

Gy.  Hast  seen  the  stranger  and  his  Leontines? 
He  goes  through  fire  as  'twere  a  pastime  loved, 
Shaking  the  burning  timbers  from  his  back 
As  they  were  flies. 

Men.  Thrice  has  he  formed 

The  citizens  for  charge,  though  night  and  flame 
War  on  confusion's  side. 

Gy.  Ocrastes  comes 

WTith  ships  that  treble  all  sent  out  from  Carthage. 

Men.  Then  Dion  to  the  rescue  speedily, 
Or  Syracuse  is  ashes!     [Shouts  witJwut] 

Gy.  Dion!     He's  here! 

Now  Mercy  cloister  close,  and  stern  Revenge, 
Long  patient,  take  the  sword! 

Men.  Ho,  who  are  these? 

[Enter  the  warrior  in  combat  icith  Phillistus,  left,  rear] 

Gy.  The  stranger  with  Phillistus!     Here's  my  blow! 

[Attempts  to  rise] 


284  THE    SIEGE 

Men.  No  need!    He  falls! 
Phil.  [Down]  Your  mercy! 

Warrior.  Take  it — death! 

Thou  single  confine  of  all  men's  corruption, 
Die— die — and  poison  ghosts  in  hell! 

[Flames  issue  from  Phillistus'  house.    Servants  rush  out, 

shrieking] 

Phil.  [Half  rising  and  looking  at  the  flames]  My  house 
In  flames !     Thanks,  gods,  for  this !     Proud  mistress,  burn 
Behind  your  bars,  and  to  your  black  remains 
Be  your  Ocrastes  welcome! 

Warrior.  Aid  me,  Heaven! 

[Rushes  into  house] 

Phil.  That  voice — O  traitor!    He  will  save  her!    Ay 
He'll  tread  through  hell  nor  burn  his  feet! 
I  die  now  as  they  kiss !     Ocrastes — O ! 
The  rest  I'll  tell  to  gaunt  and  gibbering  shades. 

[Dies] 

[Curtain  falls  and  rises  upon  the  same  scene  in  ruins, 
several  hours  later.  Wrecks  smoulder  in  foreground. 
In  rear  the  flames  from  ^chridina  throw  light  on  the 
untouched  castle  and  island.  Noise  of  battle  comes 
from  left.  Enter  from  bridge  road  Dion,  Panthus, 
Calippus,  Aristocles,  Speusippu,s,  and  others] 
Dion.  Thanks  for  my  life.  'Twas  bravely  rescued, 

friends. 

Cal.  My  lord,  you  do  us  wrong  so  to  expose  the  arm 
That  props  our  hope. 

Dion.  Nay,  not  with  me,  Calippus, 

The  battle  rests,  but  with  the  unknown  warrior 
Gods  lend  our  fainting  cause.     Where'er  he  strikes 
The  gashed  enemy  look  on  their  wounds 
And  turn  like  death-met  fear  to  seek  a  cover. 

Aris.  Ay!     Once  he  fell,  but  rose  with  such  new  might 
He  seemed  like  Mars  who,  tripped  on  Trojan  field, 


THE    SIEGE  285 

Uprising  threw  his  shoulders  'gainst  the  clouds 
And  darkened  heaven. 

Panthus.  By  Zeus,  he'd  dare  to  hale 

Rhamnusia  from  her  winged  car  and  turn 
Her  gryphons  to  the  winds ! 

Dion.  Back  to  his  aid ! 

Pan.  Your  wound,  my  lord. 

Cal.  Give  valor  space  to  breathe. 

There'll  be  brave  puffing  ere  the  wall  is  down. 
The  channel  banks  it  close,  but  we  may  breach  it. 

Speu.  It  must  be  done,  and  must,  sir,  captains  may 
In  war. 

Dion.  Then  to  it!    We  waste  breath. 

Pan.  Stay,  sir! 

We  go — not  you — for  when  our  general  bleeds 
Each  man  afield  bleeds  with  him.     See,  your  wound! 
By  Thaumas'  claw-foot  maids,  'tis  past  a  scratch! 

Dion.  I  feel  not  this — but  O,  fair  Syracuse! 
Rock  in  thy  fiery  cradle  till  the  sea 
Gets  up  to  weep,  and  bending  gods  pour  down 
Remorseful  tears  to  drown  the  reddening  shame 
That  blushes  o'er  the  moon  and  writes  the  name 
Of  hell  upon  the  stars! 

[A  sudden  burst  of  noise  and  flame  from  the  heights  of 
Achridina] 

Art  gone,  my  city?  .  .  . 
Ah,  fallen  Dionysius,  must  thou 
Lose  all,  then  cast  thy  soul  to  swell  the  loss? 
It  is  thy  kingly  reputation  burns, 
WTith  all  that  thou  mightst  own  in  fair  Elysium ! 

[Shouting,  left] 

Speu.  The  wall!  the  wall!     They  charge! 

Pan.  The  stranger  leads! 

Ho,  come,  Speusippus! 

Dion.  On !  on,  on,  my  friends ! 


286  THE    SIEGE 

[Exeunt,  left.  The  flames  from  Achridina  die  down. 
Semi-darkness.  Men  enter  and  creep  about  the  black 
ened  ruins.  Soft  light  in  the  East] 

First  man.  Now  Ceres  mend  our  bones !    Will 't  e'er  be 
light? 

Second  man.  Ay,  yonder  winks  the  dawn. 

First  man.  This  blindfold  war 

Is  Horror  past  familiar — her  leper  cheek 
Bowsing  both  cheeks  like  mistress  privileged. 

Third  man.  Gods  keep  us !     Many  a  man  has  died  this 

night 

Upon  his  dear  friend's  sword.     The  treacherous  torch 
And  threatening  glare  of  flames  too  oft  betrayed 
The  panic-glazed  eye. 

[Domenes  rushes  on  from  left.     Speusippus  following] 

First  man.  Domenes? 

Second  man.  Ay, 

The  captain  of  the  tyrant's  guards.     The  Greek 
Is  on  him! 

Third  man.  Down ! 

Dom.  Spare  me!    I'll  give  you  news! 

Speu.  Live  while  your  tongue  wags.     Speak !    What  of 

the  fleet 
From  Italy? 

Dom.         All  lost  but  one  poor  sail 
That  brings  the  desperate  news.     The  tyrant  mad 
With  this  is  bound  for  flight  with  what  is  left 
Of  Carthage. 

Speu.          Ah,  Ocrastes  dead? 

Dom.  Drowned,  sir. 

Speu.  And  Dion's  wife? 

Dom.  She's  in  the  castle — safe. 

Speu.  And  flies  with  Dionysius?     Speak,  man! 

Dom.  She  begs  to  stay,  but  he  may  force  her  off. 


THE    SIEGE  287 

Speu.  Then  we  must  stop  this  play  and  take  the  castle ! 
Drag  off!    You're  past  all  harm.     [Going  off,  left]      Now 
one  charge  more!    [Exit] 

[Light  breaks  over  Lesser  Harbor] 

Voices.  Light!   light! 

First  man.  O  blessed  Zeus!     And  yet  I  fear 
The  babe-eyed  Dawn  will  sicken  with  what's  here 
And  creep  back  into  night. 

Second  man.  No,  day  comes  on, — 

The  red-capped  nurse  that  in  her  bosom  hides 
The  cherub  Dawn,  while  her  broad  smile 
Goes  round  the  world. 

Third  man.  A  smile  on  this? 

Second  man.  Ay,  ay, 

Her  stomach's  for  all  sights,  and  ulcerous  earth 
She'll  kiss  as  close  as  fountain-laughing  vales. 

First  man.  By  Ares'  bloody  dame,  here's  work  enough 
To  keep  the  gods  a  year  from  holiday! 

[Shouts  without,  left.     Enter  citizens  and  soldiers  in  joy- 
ful  confusion] 

Voices.  'Tis  down!     The  wall  is  down!    The  castle's 
taken! 

A  voice.  The  tyrant  has  fled  by  sea! 

Another.  And  none  too  soon! 

Another.    He'd  pay  his  head  else! 

Cries  without.  Dion!    Dion!    Dion! 

[Enter  Dion  with  friends  and  citizens} 

Dion.  Shout  not  my  name,  for  'twas  the  noble  stranger 
"Who  won  this  night.     Seek  him,  Calippus, — beg 
His  presence  here  with  brow  unhelmeted, 
That  we  may  look  where  valor  hath  her  home. 

Cal.  He's  gone,  my  lord. 

Dion.  Gone? 


288  THE    SIEGE 

Cat.  Vanished,  as  the  sea 

Had  lapped  him  up. 

Dion.  More  like  the  gods  have  stooped 

To  draw  him  home  again. 

[Looks  about  at  the  desolation  and  groans] 

Cal.  Your  wound,  my  lord? 

Dion.  No,  no.     I  weep  for  dying  Syracuse. 
Now  is  her  glory  like  a  weary  star 
Withdrawn  from  fortune's  heaven.     O  fairest  city, 
Whose  beauty  drew  the  feet  of  farthest  kings, 
And  set  a  value  in  the  poorest  eye 
To  be  a  storied  heritage  to  sons 

When  sires  who  saw  had  passed!    Even  thou  hast  won 
From  cold  oblivion  but  an  ashen  cloak! 

Aris.  'Tis  tyranny  lies  here,  not  Syracuse. 
Ay,  from  these  mourned  ashes,  friend,  will  spring 
A  brighter  glory  than  they  bury  now, 
And  this  night's  woe  bear  fruitage  of  a  peace 
When  Time  shall  hang  as  thick  with  happy  hours 
As  Flora's  breast  with  buds. 

Speu.  By  Hector's  spur, 

It  pricks  to  think  this  valor-breasted  night, 
Bristling  with  action's  pikes  toward  charging  death, 
Should  e'er  beg  life  of  tolerant  memory, 
Thankful  for  so  much  breath  as  may  endow 
A  musty  adage  in  the  mouth  of  peace, 
Or  shepherd  song  piped  by  an  idle  rill 
To  meek-eared  violets  in  noonday  shade! 
O !  O !  my  lady  Fame  must  have  her  nap. 
Soft,  Mars,  put  on  thy  slippers! 

[Enter  soldiers  dragging  Heraclides] 

Dion.  Who  is  this? 

First  soldier.  My  lord,  a  prisoner. 

Second  sol.  'Tis  Heraclides, 

My  lord. 


THE    SIEGE  289 

Voices.  Death!   Death  to  Dion's  enemy! 

Dion.  What?     Heraclides? 

Pan.  Ay!  [Drawing  his  sword]  The  blow  is  mine! 

Dion.  Put  up  your  sword,  brave  Panthus.  Nay,  put  up ! 

Pan.  [Dropping  weapon]  'Twere  better  used,  sir. 

Dion.  Heraclides,  speak. 

What  would  you  say?     Do  you  repent  this  night? 

Her.  All  men,  my  lord,  repent  the  step  that  brings 
Their  cloud-high  foreheads  to  earth.     I  lie  so  low 
That  Fortune's  sun-bent  eye  will  find  no  more 
My  sunken  ruin, — and  but  one  comfort  left, 
I  can  descend  no  further. 

Pan.  Ay,  to  hell ! 

Her.  Ambition  knows  no  hell  but  failure.     Strike! 
You  put  me  out  of  torture,  not  send  me  to  it. 

Dion.  Life  only  dreams  her  hells  till  death's  be  found. 

Her.  'Tis  easy  thus  to  speak  from  victory's  height 
Whence  all  looks  fair, — so  fair  misfortune  seems 
Sole  lie  o'  the  world.     We  bite  truth  with  the  dust, 
My  lord. 

Voices.  His  sentence!     Death!     The  traitor!     Death! 

Dion.  Peace,  friends. 

Voices.  Death!     Seize  him!     Kill  him! 

Cal.  Dion  speaks! 

Voices.  Hear  Dion! 

Dion.  Not  alone  in  martial  venture 

Do  victors  win  their  bays.     Let  each  of  us, 
Trampling  on  anger  and  contending  malice 
That  from  our  natures  thrust  out  serpent  heads, 
Forgive  this  captive  foe,  and  crown  our  brows 
With  wreaths  of  victory  outshining  all 
That  shake  from  war-decked  temples.     Hear,  my  lord. 
By  the  power  I  hold  in  the  true  hearts  and  minds 
Of  noble  Syracusans,  I  forgive  thee. 

Voices.  No,  no ! 


290  THE    SIEGE 

Cal.  My  lord,  be  warned.     He  has  a  tongue 

Would  flatter  Zeus  from  heaven,  and  common  minds 
He  calls  as  flies  to  honey. 

Dion.  Nay,  his  sweet 

Is  wormwood  now.     Because  this  foolish  man 
Has  walked  in  sin,  shall  I  too  blemish  virtue? 

Voices.  Revenge!     Revenge! 

Dion.  Who  offers  injury, 

And  who  revenges  it,  ply  the  same  thread 
Of  Nature's  scarlet.     Heraclides,  go. 
Thou'rt  free. 

Her.  I  do  not  kneel  to  you — a  man — 
But  to  the  god  that  houses  in  your  shape. 
O  noble  Dion,  what  deed  may  speak  my  thanks 
Too  great  for  tongue? 

Dion.  Arise,  go  forth,  and  where 
You  once  betrayed  a  thousand  hearts  lead  one 
To  safety. 

[Exit  Heraclides,  rabble  following] 

Cal.  [To  Speusippus]  Sir,  what  think  you? 

Speu.  'Tis  gross  error. 

He'll  breathe  a  life  into  the  stones  o'  the  street 
Ere  lack  for  followers. 

Cal.  Come,  let  us  see. 

[Exeunt  Calippus  and  Speusippus,  others  following] 

Dion.  [To  his  Grecian  guards]  Go  nurse  your  wounds, 

brave  friends.     I  need  no  more 

Your  arms,  but  ever  need  your  love.     You  with  them, 
Panthus.     You  know  my  wishes. 

Pan.  Ay,  my  lord. 

[Exeunt  Panthus  and  guards.  Aristocles  remains  with 
Dion] 

Dion.  My  friend!     [They  embrace]     No  tears!    We'll 
water  joy  hereafter. 


THE    SIEGE  291 

Now  there  is  much  to  do.     Wilt  seek  Calippus  for  me 
And  make  him  governor  of  the  castle? 
Aria.  Ay.     [Exit] 

Dion.  {Alone}  Now  red  revolt  with  opened  veins  lies  low 
Fast  paling  to  her  death;  and  silence  deep 
As  takes  the  mother's  ear  who  waits  the  step 
Of  her  dead  soldier  son,  creeps  o'er  the  world. 
And  to  my  lonely  eye  the  universe 
Shrinks  to  a  monument  writ  with  one  grief. 
Ocrastes,  couldst,  when  locked  within  my  love — 
Ay,  bedded  in  the  core — to  vermin  turn 
And  gnaw  the  heart  thou  breathedst  in?  ...  O  youth, 
Among  life's  strangely  flowering  hopes  thou  art 
The  blossom  of  deceit !     When  we  have  watched 
Thy  tender  green  peer  up — thy  opening  buds 
That  wrap  their  silken  promise  round  our  fears — 
And  spent  our  prayers  like  nurturing  rains  upon  thee 
That  thou  mayst  bloom  above  our  pride  and  hang 
The  rose  or  spring  upon  our  frosty  age, 
How  dost  thou  droop,  till  o'er  thy  cankered  wreck 
We  dew  thy  fall  with  tears !  .  .  .  O  beauteous  bud, 
What  deadly  aconite  cast  its  foul  shade 
Upon  thy  blowing  grace?     My  son,  my  son, 
I  am  no  warrior  when  I  think  of  thee, 
Else  would  my  sword  be  out.     A  father's  eye 
Is  turned  upon  thy  sin,  and  all  the  wrong 
Thou  didst  to  me  half  righted  with  a  tear  .  .  . 
.  .  .  The  sun  comes  flaming  from  the  sea  as  though 
Another  Syracuse  burnt  on  the  waves  .  .  . 
Why  stand  I  here?     The  castle  doors  are  open, 
And  therein  waits  the  fairest  face  of  earth 
To  shine  for  me      To  shine?     O  human  sun, 
Unlike  thy  skyey  peer,  thy  light  is  dimmed 
With  what  thou'st  looked  upon.     Thy  beams  have  drunk 


292  THE    SIEGE 

Pollution  deep  that  now  detested  falls 
Upon  my  soul. 

[Re-enter  Aristocles] 

Aris.  All's  well,  my  lord. 

Dion.  All's  well? 

That's  strange  news  for  my  heart.     Wilt  go  with  me? 

Aris.  Whither,  my  lord? 

Dion.  Into  yon  castle.  .  .  .  Come. 

[Exeunt.     Curtain] 


ACT   V 

SCENE  :  A  room  in  the  castle.     Brentio  alone. 

Bren.  By  Hector,  we've  had  a  night  of  it.  I  must  stop 
now  and  count  my  fingers  and  toes,  for  I'm  sure  there's 
some  of  me  missing.  First,  my  gold!  [Counts  gold\  All 
here.  But  poor  mistress  Theano  that  I  promised  to  carry 
through  fire  and  flood  for  this  same  sweet  gold  was  burnt 
up  last  night.  Well,  my  lord  Ocrastes  is  dead  too,  so  I'll 
not  be  called  to  account.  Had  it  been  flood  now  I  might 
have  kept  my  promise,  but  fire — I  never  could  abide  a 
singed  beard. 

[Enter  Tichus] 

Ho,  Tichus!  These  are  wars,  sir!  These  are  wars! 
Have  you  killed  your  man  this  night? 

Tick.  A  score,  I  hope. 

Bren.  Well,  I've  naught  to  say.  Let  deeds  talk.  A 
bragging  tongue  is  Fame's  best  grave-digger,  though  it 
wag  i'  the  mouth  of  Hercules.  But  I  spared  some,  I'll 
say  that.  They  cried  so  for  mercy,  poor  fellows!  Not  a 
man  of  'em  was  ready  to  die,  by  his  own  count. 

Tick.  If  you  wait  for  that  you'll  die  swearing  blood  is 
green  for  all  you'll  even  draw  of  it.  When  the  gods  prom 
ised  that  no  man  should  die  till  he  was  ready  old  Charon 
sold  his  boat. 

Bren.  There's  a  stick-penny  for  you.  What  was  his 
bargain  ? 

Tick.  A  feather  bed,  that  he  might  sleep  off  idleness. 

Bren.  Ah,  but  you  should  have  seen  ine  when  a  villain 

293 


294  THE    SIEGE 

pitted  at  me  with  three  pikes.  A  murderous  three- 
handed  deformity,  by  the  truth  o'  my  eyes  he  was! 

Tick.  Then  you  shook  your  sword,  I  warrant ! 

Bren.  No,  bless  me,  I  shook  my  feet. 

Tick.  Man,  you  didn't  run? 

Bren.  No,  I  flew.     I  wore  Mercury's  feathers,  I  tell  you. 

Tick.  Shame,  Brentio!  A  coward's  leg  will  never  over 
take  Fame. 

Bren.  Ay,  but  when  a  man  must  leap  the  grave  to  catch 
her,  let  take  her  who  will!  I'm  done.  Have  you  been 
through  the  castle? 

Tick.  No. 

Bren.  Come  then.  There  are  sights  to  be  seen.  Mostly 
in  the  cellars,  where  every  soldier  gets  a  bottle  for  his  song. 

[Sings] 

Who  will  not  be  merry  then  let  him  go  drown, 

Let  him  go  drown, 
In  as  rosy  a  bumper  as  ever  went  down, 

As  ever  went  down, 

And  he'll  bob  up,  he'll  bob  up,  by  Bacchus,  he  will, 
As  hail  a  good  fellow  as  ever  wet  gill ! 

Here  are  our  masters!  I'm  gone.  A  hero  may  drink, 
but  work — never!  [Exit] 

Tick.  There's  more  trouble  ahead  than  the  claw  o'  my 
wit  can  scratch.  Ocrastes'  death  makes  one  less  in  the 
pother,  but  I've  eyes  in  my  head,  and  there's  no  doubt  my 
master  is  in  love  with  the  lady  Aratea,  and  one  lover  can 
make  more  trouble  than  a  score  of  extra  husbands.  Well, 
well,  when  thy  cares  bewilder  thee  take  time  and  wine  for 
thy  counsellors.  So  let  it  work  out.  [Exit.  Aristocles 
and  Dion  appear  in  hall  partly  visible  through  wide  open 
doors,  rear.  Aristocles  enters  and  comes  front.  Dion  re 
mains  without,  gazing  down,  moody  and  meditative] 


THE    SIEGE  295 

Aris.  Deep,  deep,  my  thoughts,  dive  to  some  bed  of 

death 

In  my  wide-regioned  self,  nor  come  again 
Like  sea-returned  corpse,  with  livid  grin 
And  foul,  accreted  horror,  to  beg  anew 
For  burial. 

[Dion  comes  in  and  walks  slowly  across  to  Aristocles] 
You'll  see  her  now? 

Dion.  See  whom? 

Aris.  Your  wife. 

Dion.  My  wife?    Have  I  a  wife? 

Aris.  She  waits 

Your  summons  by  Diana's  altar. 

Dion.  Ah! 

So  near? 

Aris.  Theano  waits  with  her. 

Dion.  My  niece? 

She's  safe? 

Aris.  By  miracle.     The  unknown  knight 
Bore  her  from  out  Phillistus'  burning  house. 

Dion.  Still  swells  our  debt  to  him. 

Aris.  You'll  see  her  now? 

Dion.  See  whom,  my  friend? 

Aris.  Your  wife,  sir, — Aratea. 

Dion.  When  you  repeat  the  name  I  half  believe 
I  have  a  wife.     Your  voice  was  ever  true, 
Nor  fed  me  with  the  rifled  husks  of  speech. 
.  .  .  Was  she  not  fair? 

Aris.  My  lord? 

Dion.  How  fair,  think  you? 

Aris.  Who,  sir,  could  say?    Such  beauty  scorns  all 

words 
And  writes  itself  but  in  the  wondering  eye. 

Dion.  You  shift.     You  shift.     Your  tongue  is  beauty's 
pencil. 


296  THE    SIEGE 

Did  heaven  lack  a  goddess  you  might  limn 
A  fairer  than  a  Venus  for  the  place. 
Speak  on.     Tell  me  her  sum  to  the  last  doit. 
The  balance  of  a  hair — a  smile  unborn — 
I'd  not  strike  off. 

Aris.  [Coldly]  You  know  her  worth,  my  lord. 

Dion.  Nay,  the  appraising  eye  when  fixed  too  near 
The  thing  it  loves  distorts  the  sweet  proportion. 
You  can  adjust  your  gaze,  take  stand  to  bring 
Her  beauty  to  perfection's  single-point. 

Aris.  What  matter?    All  is  yours. 

Dion.  Ah,  if  'twere  mine 

I'd  care  not,  happy  then  to  know  'twas  mine. 
But  when  we've  lost  we're  moved  to  question,  sir, 
Else  are  we  crippled  twice  in  our  estate, 
Once  in  the  loss,  again  to  know  it  not. 

Aris.  Strange  speech,  my  lord.     I  hardly  know  your 
tongue. 

Dion.  You  can  not  understand,  for  you've  no  wife. 
No  more  have  I.     But  once  .  .  .   Yes,  yes,  I'll  see  her. 
Wilt  bring  her  here? 

Aris.  I  bring  her?    Here?     To  you? 

Dion.  If  'tis  too  sad  a  service 

Aris.  Nay,  I  go.          [Exit] 

Dion.  I  am  forgot  in  his  great  pity  of  her. 
[Enter  Calippus] 

Cat.  Lord  Dion,  Heraclides  begs  to  see  you. 

Dion.  Is  he  alone? 

Col.  jEgisthus  comes  with  him. 

Dion.  Bid  them  into  the  banquet  hall. 

Col.  My  lord, 

You  will  not  see  them? 

Dion.  Ay,  there's  naught  to  fear. 

Tell  them  111  join  them  soon. 

[Exit  Calippus] 


THE    SIEGE  297 

Now  riven  heart, 

Close  firm  as  mountain  bulwark  that  beats  off 
The  Thracian  wind. 

[Enter  Aristocles  with  Theano  and  Aratea] 
Dion.  [To  TJieano]  Good  welcome,  niece. 

[He  embraces  Theano,  and  looks  silently  at  Aratea] 
Ara.  [Falteringly]  My  lord- 


Dion.  Your    friend,    your    lover — ay,    your     slave, — 

but  not 
Your  lord,  sweet  Aratea. 

Ara.  O!     Condemned! 

Dion.  Not  that— but 

Ara.  Then  you'll  hear  me? 

Dion.  No!    Your  voice 

Renews  in  me  the  battle  that  I  thought 
Was  fought  to  end. 

Ara.  But  I  could  say,  my  lord 

Dion.  Ay,  you  could  say  what  would  revoke  the  sun, 
Turn  back  into  his  heart  his  golden  spears, 
And  from  the  sapphire  battlements  make  pour 
Surprised  night !     How  easy  then  to  shake 
The  scarce-sworn  vow  from  my  unfendod  breast 
To  melt  like  snowflake  caught  in  lap  of  June! 

Ara.  O,  sir 

Dion.  You've  that  in  you  defeats  resolve, 

And  casts  in  broil  the  mind's  high  chancery. 
I  will  not  hear  a  word !     'Tis  my  defence, 
Not  cruelty.     All  honor  shall  be  thine 
Apart  from  me. 

Ara.  What  honor  may  be  mine 

Apart  from  thee? 

Dion.  Nay,  question  not  my  justice ! 

Ara.  You  think  me  vile,  my  lord? 

Dion.  Mayhap  I  do! 

Were  there  no  poisons  left  in  Sicily? 


THE    SIEGE 

No  rank,  night-sweating  herbs  whose  bane  might  work 
Proud  honor's  choice?     Were  daggers  grown  too  blunt 
To  pierce  fair  flesh?     What,  not  a  rope — nor  cord? 
No  garters — strips  of  silken  robes 

Aris.  O,  spare 

To  accuse  a  soul  who  erred  that  she  might  still 
Be  true  to  Heaven. 

Dion.  True?     By  Pallas!    True? 

Aris.  Sir,  she  obeyed  the  gods  who  bid  us  wait 
And  work  on  earth  our  destiny. 

Dion.  The  gods 

Sometimes  write  in  our  fates  that  to  seek  death 
Is  what  will  solely  please  them. 

Aris.  Must  I  see 

The  sun  of  justice  in  you  set? 

Dion.  Ah,  friend, 

Do  you  not  see  'tis  my  desire  that  cries 
To  keep  her  still?     'Tis  passion  weighing  doubts, 
Hoping  to  find  them  light  as  rising  vapors. 

Aris.  Though  she  had  struck  at  life  within  her  heart, 
Swart  Atropos  had  dropped  her  shears  for  pity, 
Nor  helped  so  fair  a  woe  to  death.     Yet  you 

Dion.  O,  she  is  pure,  but  not  to  me!     'Tis  stamped 
Upon  my  soul  that  she  is  dark  to  me 
Though  fair  to  Heaven ! 

The.                             Hear  her,  sir.     She  took 
No  vows.     Her  lips  were  dumb 

Dion.  O,  vows!    You  speak 

Of  words? 

The.  But 

Dion.  Silence,  niece! 

Aris.  Receive  her,  sir. 

Dion.  Never,  my  friend!     What  can  you  know  of  this? 

Aris.  I  know  she  is  Pandora  without  taint! 
The  secret  pattern  lost  in  mourning  heaven 


THE    SIEGE  299 

When  rapt  Hephaistos  shaped  the  perfect  clay 
By  Pallas'  breath  made  vital!     Sir,  receive  her! 
Let  me  implore  it  by  our  years  of  love. 

Dion.  Thou  'rt  dear  to  me  as  man  may  be  to  man, 
But  wert  thou  dear  as  god  may  be  to  god, 
I  could  not  grant  thy  wish. 

Aris.  Then  she  is  mine! 

And,  could  I  snatch  a  tear  from  Dian's  cheek 
When  bowed  at  secret  altar  she  renews 
Her  vestal  sanctity,  'twould  not  be  less 
Unspotted  to  my  love!     O,  Aratea, 
Wilt  come?     My  wife?     Say  not  thou  lov'st,  but  cling 
Unto  my  breast  as  trusting  bud  to  bough, 
Or  but  uplook  with  eyes  whose  shaken  sea 
Is  calmed  in  mine. 

Dion.  Ye  powers  that  rule  my  being, 

Stop  every  conscious  note  but  wonder! 

Ari$.  Ah, 

I've  heard  it  said  Apollo  loved  my  mother, 
And  I  could  wish  it  true,  that  god-descended 
I  might  embrace  thyself,  who  surely  art 
Of  high  Olympus  born — whose  mortal  part 
Wears  beauty  as  the  night  her  stars. 

Dion.  Behold 

Me  desolate,  ye  gods!     Is  this  my  friend? 
Nay,  thou  hast  given  friendship  such  a  blow 
She  dies  from  earth,  nor  in  eternal  groves 
May  she  be  healed. 

Aris.  Xot  mine,  but  yours,  the  blow. 

Dion.  Ocrastes  struck  me,  and  I  rose  again. 
My  wife  was  taken,  and  I  lived  to  sigh. 
But  you — O,  now  the  quick  of  life  is  seized 
With  mortal  ill.     Now  shakes  my  earth  to  centre, 
And  on  me  falling  bow  her  peaked  tops. 
Even  here  and  now  I  die.     All  fellowship 


300  THE    SIEGE 

Forego  with  gallant  breath,  and  lay  me  down 
Like  forest  trunk  that  pours  its  wasting  heart 
From  every  lopped  limb. 

[Theano  attempts  to  comfort  him] 

Go  from  me,  girl. 

My  wounded  senses  shrink  away  from  life 
Till  gentlest  touches  are  as  brands  of  pain. 
Dumb  be  my  lips.     I'll  speak  no  more  on  earth. 

Ara.  Keep  you  that  word!     Thy  silence  is  my  speech! 
Know,  Dion,  though  the  knowing  now  is  naught, 
Ocrastes  left  me  ere  his  marriage  vow 
Was  cold  in  air,  nor  took  one  bridal  kiss. 
Nor  have  these  eyes  beheld  him  since  that  hour, 
Nor  will  the  eye  of  mortal  see  him  more. 
The  sea  now  holds  him  to  her  buried  heart. 
Some  shelly  couch  washed  with  a  Nereid's  tears 
Is  his  last  bed. 

Dion.  And  you  untouched  .  .  .  untouched. 

Ara.  I  grieve  you  did  not  know  me  better,  sir. 
You  too,  my  lord  Aristocles.     Those  cords — 
Those  daggers — poisons — had  been  quickly  found 

Dion.  Untouched !    No  bridal  kiss !    My  blindness  goes. 
But  Heaven,  in  pity,  shut  me  dark  again, 
For  I  have  wronged  Ocrastes — who  is  dead. 
How  could  your  woman  heart  not  know  the  truth — 
That  he  thus  saved  you  from  a  baser  touch 
To  be  restored  all  perfect,  pure  to  me? 
And  he  is  dead.     Give  me  your  pity,  gods! 
Now  we  will  mourn,  Theano.     Here,  my  daughter. 
Our  griefs  let  marry  in  our  kissing  tears. 

[Embraces  Theano} 

But  there's  a  brightness  yet  in  this  dark  woe. 

[Advances  to  Aratea] 
Once  more,  my  love,  my  wife,  you  are  all  mine. 


THE    SIEGE  301 

[Aristocles  steps  before  Aratea] 
What  mean  you  now? 

Aris.  To  guard  my  own.     For  you 

The  pearl  of  opportunity  is  lost. 
Briareus'  hands  could  not  now  snatch  it  back 
Where 't  pales  on  time's  retreating  wave. 

Dion.  By  Mars, 

I'll  pass  you,  sir! 

The.  Let  Aratea  speak. 

Is 't  not  for  her  to  choose  ? 

Dion.  A  wedded  woman 

Can  have  no  choice. 

The.  O,  Dion,  be  a  god, 

Not  man,  and  grant  it. 

Aris.  Choose  thine  own.     As  free 

As  new  created  star,  fix  where  thou  wilt. 

Dion.  Ay,  choose!     Thou  art  my  wife.    Thy  holy  truth 
Will  fail  thee  not.     Speak!    End  this  bitter  folly 
From  which  the  gods  would  turn  shame-burning  face ! 

The.  Not  if  all  tale  be  true. 

Dion.  You  speak  too  much! 

Ara.  First  swear,  my  lords,  however  I  may  choose, 
You'll  still  be  friends,  as  honored  and  as  true 
As  though  this  face  I  loathe  had  never  come 
Between  your  loves. 

Aris.  I  swear  to  you  my  friend 

Shall  be  my  friend. 

Ara.  You,  sir? 

Dion.  I  will  forgive  him, 

For  love  has  made  him  mad. 

Ara.  Swear  it  by  Heaven. 

Dion.  By  Heaven.     Now  wilt  speak? 

Ara.  Such  sacred  oaths 

Need  sacrificial  rite,  and  here  I  give 
My  blood. 


302  THE    SIEGE 

[Suddenly  draws  a  dagger  and  attempts  to  stab  herself. 
Aristocles,  watching  eagerly,  seizes  dagger,  and  sup 
porting  her  speaks  wildly] 

Aris.         Think  not  that  you  can  fly  me  now! 
Though  thou  wert  dead  still  wouldst  thou  live  for  me 
In  such  dear  semblance  of  remembered  show 
That  I  would  seek  to  woo  thy  houseless  spirit 
E'er  give  thee  o'er  unclasped  to  Heaven! 

Ara.  Ah!  [Releases  herself] 

Dion.  But  now  she  lives,  and  living  she  is  mine. 

Aris.  Her  lips,  not  yours,  shall  say! 

Dion.  Lost  man,  thou  'rt  crazed. 

I  pity  thee.     Speak,  wife. 

Ara.  O,  blow  me,  winds, 

To  some  unpeopled  sphere,  and  find  me  peace 
As  sweet  as  his  who  cropped  the  first  day  fruits 
Of  green  unharrowed  earth ! 

Dion.  This  is  no  answer. 

Ara.  My  lord,  if  5t  be  my  prayers  can  save  my  soul, 
In  some  far  fane  I'll  serve  the  priestess'  cup 
Till  Death  is  kind  and  calls  me. 

Dion.  [Seizing  her  arm]  Answer  me ! 
Art  mine,  or  his? 

Ara.  Till  truth  no  more  is  truth 

Thou  art  my  lord. 

[Aristocles  turns  and  moves  apart,  covering  his  face  with 
his  mantle.  Aratea  sinks  feebly  and  Theano  supports 
her] 

Dion.  [To  Aristocles]  Now  you've  your  answer!  Niece, 
Lead  out  my  wife. 

[Theano  takes  Aratea  from  the  room,  through  curtained 
entrance^  left} 

Aristocles — my  friend — 
I  pity  and  forgive  thee.     When  Love  drives, 
His  chariot  reins  are  veins  of  mortal  men, 


THE    SIEGE  303 

Who  fain  must  course  the  bright  god's  destiny 

Nor  reck  the  road.     'Tis  strange — not  that  you  loved  her — 

But  that  I  did  not  dream  it  must  be  so, 

She  being  the  top  and  bloom  of  all  her  sex, 

As  you,  my  lord,  of  yours.     A  mortal  judge 

Would  grant  you  her,  but  God  gave  her  to  me, 

And  I  doubt  not  He  blundered  to  a  purpose 

Beyond  our  dream.     Ah  me,  the  night's  red  eyes 

Looked  fatal  on  the  sail  that  bore  you  hither. 

Cursed  be  my  prayers  that  drew  you  from  your  Athens ! 

Farewell !    For  you  must  go.     Small  Sicily 

No  more  may  hold  us  both. 

[Re-enter  Theano] 

The.  She's  better,  sir. 

Dion.  That's  well. 

[Enter  Calippus,  through  hatt,  rear] 

Your  news? 

Cat.  Our  saviour  of  the  night 

Now  waits  to  see  you. 

Dion.  The  warrior?    Ask  him  in! 

[Exit  Calippus] 

The.  I'll  speak  the  thanks  he  waited  not  to  hear, 
Although  my  heart  gives  none  for  this  poor  life. 

[Enter  warrior,  rear,  still  in  arms  and  helmeted] 
Dion.  Thou'rt  welcome    as    the   gods.     As    lightning 

makes 

The  world  now  bright,  now  dark,  you  fill  and  void 
The  circle  of  our  sense,  but,  here  or  there, 
'Tis  ours  to  grant  you  what  you  will  if  power 
Be  in  us. 

Warrior.  [Kneeling]  For  one  thing  I  sue — forgiveness. 

[Removes  helmet] 
Dion.  Ocrastes! 
Oc.  Ay. 


304  THE    SIEGE 

Dion.  How  couldst  be  hid  from  me 

Though  veiled  in  seven-fold  steel? 

The.  Not  dead — not  dead 

Oc.  [Embracing  Theano]  My  heart,  look  up.     The  long 

tale  of  my  sins 

Will  be  as  virtue's  song  when  in  love's  ear 
'Tis  whispered.     Nay,  weep  not.     Those  woes  are  sealed. 

The.  O,  canst  forgive  me? 

Oc.  It  is  I  must  sue. 

Nay,  nay,  my  sweet,  no  liquid  gem  drop  now 
On  misery's  broken  altar,  too  long  rich 
With  these  eyes'  jewels. 

The.  Ah,  thou  'rt  mine  .  .  .  still  mine. 

Oc.  Ere  I  have  done  your  constancy  shall  hear 
Such  music  of  true  love  you'll  think  those  birds 
That  move  the  gentle  concords  of  the  night 
In  these  bright  locks  make  bower  continual. 

[Kisses  her  hair] 

For  every  hour  of  your  ungracious  star, 
With  the  full  circuit  of  a  smiling  moon 
I'll  pension  you,  till  covetous  of  time 
You'll  wish  your  sorrows  had  been  more,  not  less. 

Dion.  Not  one  embrace  for  me? 

Oc.  Before  I  make 

My  plea  for  pardon? 

Dion.  That  may  wait,  my  son, 

For  empty  hours.     This  is  too  full  of  joy. 

Oc.  I  did  not  go  to  Italy,  my  lord, 
But  to  the  Leontines 

Dion.  O,  go  not  back 

To  read  the  bloodprints  of  bewildered  feet. 
Now  as  the  soft  life-wooing  breath  that  moves 
So  swift  upon  the  track  of  orient  storms 
That  ere  the  woeful  people  dry  their  tears 
Earth  is  new-clad  in  garments  of  the  sun 


THE    SIEGE  305 

And  balm  is  in  the  air  like  blessings  winged, 
Fanning  delight  in  every  lifted  cheek, 
So  treads  this  hour  at  heel  of  flying  woe. 
[Enter  Brentio,  rear] 

Bren.  My  lord,  the  people  in  the  banquet  hall  are 
drinking  all  the  cellars  dry.  You'd  weep  to  see  it,  sir. 
[Sees  Tfieano  and  Ocrastes.  Looks  in  bewilderment  from 
one  to  the  other,  claps  hand  to  his  purse  and  runs  out] 

Dion.  The  slave's  beset. 

Oc.  He's  drunk,  my  lord. 

Dion.  I  had  forgot  Heraclides.  [Going]  Ocrastes, 
come.  We'll  not  so  soon  be  parted.  You  to  my  wife, 
Theano.  [Exeunt  Dion  and  Ocrastes,  rear;  Theano 
through  curtains,  left] 

Aris.  [Alone]  Dion,  how  oft  hast  sworn  I  was  thy  dearest, 
Yet  go  to  happiness  while  I  droop  here 
As  to  my  grave.     Nor  dost  thou  need  me  more 
Than  quickest  life  its  century-buried  dead. 
Yet  one  is  yon,  behind  those  curtains  close, 
Who  starves  even  as  you  feed.     Her  love  is  mine. 
By  Heaven,  I  know  'tis  mine!    Yet  I  must  go — 
Leave  her  to  perish.     Ay,  her  flow^er  soul 
Not  long  will  bear  the  weight  of  unloved  love. 

[Soldiers  enter  Jiall,  rear,  drinking  and  singing] 

O,  Helen  had  a  rosy  lip, 

And  only  one  might  kiss  it, 
But  all  of  mistress  wine  may  sip 

And  she  will  never  miss  it. 

Ho,  brothers  all  are  we, 

Brothers  all  are  we! 
We've  sworn  to  the  last  red  drop, 
Be  it  found  in  a  heart  or  found  in  a  cup, 

And  brothers  all  we  be! 


306  THE    SIEGE 

A  soldier's  trade  it  is  to  die, 

And  what  poor  fools  are  they 
Who  for  a  soldier's  death  will  sigh — 

'Tis  all  in  a  business  way. 

Ho,  brothers  all  are  we,  &c. 

[Exeunt  drunkenly] 

Aris.  O,  I  am  wounded  in  the  character 
I  sought  to  build  so  giant-like  that  as 
A  figure  on  the  skies  all  men  would  see 
And  longing  upward  scorn  their  baser  state! 
Now  am  I  grown  deformed  with  a  scar 
That  all  eternity  can  not  make  fair. 
.  .  .  To  go  ...  nor  say  farewell.     To  go  ...  to  go, 
And  see  no  more  her  face  .  .  .  that  face  which  is 
Imagination  sighing  in  a  word. 
That  face  where  Beauty  with  her  mysteries 
Sits  listening  to  Magi  of  the  air, 
Or  ocean  lapping  on  eternal  sands. 
'Tis  as  a  star  should  to  a  flower  turn, 
And  yet  remember  heaven. 

[Approaches  curtains  and  kneels] 

Fare  thee  well! 

O  thou  whose  body  is  a  living  urn 
Full  of  distilled  sweets  from  every  mead 
Where  Love  hath  set  a  flower!    Whose  soul  compacts 
All  earth's  divinity,  and  leaves  profane 
All  space  where  it  is  not! 

[Arises  and  starts  out  slowly.     At  the  door  he  looks 
back.    Aratea  appears  at  curtains,  but  does  not  see  him] 

O,  I  must  fly  ... 

Must  fly  ...  nor  hear  again  her  voice  that  lures 
As  it  would  draw  the  fallen  golden  world 
O'er  desert  ages  to  man's  memory. 


THE    SIEGE  307 

Ara.  [Sees  him  and  advances]  You  here,  Aristocles? 

Aris.  Wilt  say  farewell? 

Ara.  [Going  back]  Farewell. 

Aris.  No  word  but  that? 

Ara.  That  is  too  much. 

Aris.  [Approaching]  Too  much? 

Ara  I — faint  again.     Nay,  touch  me  not! 

Aris.  Am  I  so  perilous  to  thee?     My  hand 
Has  had  no  commerce  yet  with  cruelty. 

Ara.  The  moon  with  silver  foot  steps  not  more  soft 
Among  the  tears  of  night  than  falls  thy  touch 
On  me,  who,  poorer  than  the  night,  must  go 
Uncomforted.     Thou 'It  leave  this  place  at  once 
If  thou  hast  pity. 

Aris.  Ah,  had  I  a  heart 

Great-swelling  as  the  sad  Molurian  mount, 
Or  piled  peaks  that  wreck  the  sailing  moon, 
'Twere  not  enough  to  melt  upon  this  woe ! 

Ara.  Wretched,  O  wretched  me!     To  be  the  curse 
Of  what  is  best  on  earth! 

Aris.  Peace,  unjust  lips! 

Thou  art  a  rose  that,  rooted  in  Elysium, 
Leans  sorrowing  to  the  world  that  it  may  see 
What  beauty  is  and  know  then  how  to  dream. 
O,  close  those  other  worlds,  your  eyes,  that  I 
May  live  in  this !    [She  moves  back] 
Stay,  I  must  speak ! 

Ara.  No,  no! 

Aris.  And  you  must  hear  me. 

Ara.  Silence,  sir,  is  best. 

In  her  deep  bosom  let  our  woes  be  buried, 
As  Night  doth  shepherd  all  the  cares  of  day 
Till  Heaven  think  the  world  asleep,  though  'neath 
The  dark  are  hot  and  staring  eyes. 

Aris.  Nay,  nay, 


308  THE    SIEGE 

Put  courage  in  thy  heart  to  gender  wings 
That  we  may  dart  as  swallows  to  the  sun 
And  tread  the  rosy  air  where  love  may  breathe! 

Am.  My  lord 

Aris.  Come !  come !     Greece  is  our  home  of  light. 

There  you,  my  wife,  shall  rule  a  lesser  heaven 
And  tutor  souls  for  God's.     [She  turns  to  go] 

One  moment  hear  me! 
You  love  me,  Aratea. 

Ara.  Fare  you  well. 

Aris.  [Against  the  curtains]  First  say  thou  lovest  me! 

Dost  thou  not  hear 

A  voice  at  night  when  calm  Eirene  leads 
Sleep  to  all  eyes  but  thine? 

Ara.  Have  mercy,  sir! 

Aris.  What  leap  of  soul  or  dream  of  sense  hast  thou 
That  is  not  sweeter  for  you  hold  me  dear? 
When  Theia's  daughter,  priestess  gray,  unhoods 
Her  morning  face,  and  all  her  clouds  of  rose 
With  flying  petals  light  the  waking  world, 
Does  not  your  ecstasy  swim  on  the  flood 
Of  my  remembered  eyes,  and  their  delight 
Re- jewel  beauty's  diadem? 

Ara.  I  beg 

Aris.  When  throbbing  wonders  of  a  dying  sun 
Trail  off  their  glories  like  escaping  souls, 
And  Night  with  lustred  heaven  round  her  neck 
Lures  up  immensities,  whose  spirit  longs 
Through  all  your  longings  till  it  leads  your  own 
To  crowned  and  still  content? 

Ara.  Will  you  not  go? 

Aris.  And  when  thy  gaze  is  on  the  sibyl  sea, 
Striving  to  read  her  ancient  wave-writ  script, 
And  break  the  seal  a  differing  language  sets 


THE    SIEGE  309 

Upon  her  mighty  tongue,  whence  cometh  peace 
Like  full  and  silent  answer  to  your  heart? 

Ara.  If  this  be  love,  then  let  it  be  mine  still. 
For  it  may  be  without  a  touch  of  hands. 
Ay,  though  in  Athens  you  must  live  and  move 
Still  are  you  mine  in  mysteries  and  joys. 
I  thank  you,  sir,  for  having  taught  me  love 
That  is  forever  holy,  wronging  none. 

Aris.  Nay,  Aratea,  man  can  not  be  God 
And  pipe  all  Heaven  through  a  mortal  reed ! 
Come  to  my  arms,  O  life  and  soul  of  me ! 
As  chaste  verbenas  on  an  altar  kiss, 
As  streamlets  join  in  soft  approving  shade, 
As  clouds  immingle  in  the  glancing  sun, 
So  shall  our  loves  unchided  of  the  skies. 
Not  leafy  choirs  that  anthem  Flora  in, 
Or  those  sweet  songs  that  in  day's  virgin  hour 
Their  hymeneal  pour  from  feathery  pipes 
That  stale  Apollo's  lute,  shall  win  more  smiles 
From  the  consenting  gods ! 

Ara.  O,  music,  breath 

Of  sin! 

Aris.  Not  so!     To  love  thee  not  were  sin! 
The  adoration  of  so  fair  a  soul 

Would  save  me  were  I  damned !     And  thou  art  mine. 
By  stars  that  knit  their  motions  with  our  fates, 
The  season-childing  sun,  great  Heaven  itself 

Ara.  O,  not  by  Heaven! 

Aris.  And  Heaven's  all-greater  Lord, 

Who  gives  us  souls  that  we  may  love  all  beauty, 
And  gives  us  beauty  that  our  souls  may  love  it, 
I  swear  thee  mine! 

Ara.  Your  oath — your  oath  to  Dion! 

Aris.  Thou  'rt  mine  above  all  vows !    Thou  canst  not  let 


310  THE    SIEGE 

A  mock-enthroned  custom  speak  to  God? 
An  atom  fettered  with  nice  consequence 
Bar  up  the  gates  of  love  that  are  as  wide 
As  His  earth-belting  arms? 

Am.  No  pity,  none. 

Aris.  My  heart,  say  thou  wilt  come. 

Ara.  'Tis  death. 

Aris.  'Tis  life! 

Come  now,  O  now,  else  are  we  cast  apart 
Far  as  the  dismal  Night  heaves  her  vast  sigh, 
Far  as  the  laboring  Chaos  breathing  blows, — 
Perchance  to  hurl  eternally  about 
The  farthest  stars  that  from  opposed  heavens 
Dart  fiery  scouts  that  die  ere  they  have  met, 
So  long  their  journey  is.     Or,  gloomier  fate, 
Condemned  sit  like  stones  that  once  could  weep 
Forever  in  the  cave  of  ended  things 
That  deep  in  some  immortal  Lemnos  lies 
Nor  ever  opens  its  dank  gates  to  day ! 
O,  come  ere  we  are  lost !     Be  thy  fair  arms 
The  rainbow  girdle  to  this  longing  storm 
And  its  rude  breast  will  pillow  thee  as  soft 
As  Leda  when,  cool-rocked  on  lily  couch, 
The  great  down-bosomed  god  swam  to  her  love ! 
Come,  Aratea,  heart  of  life !     O  now 
This  pulse  speaks  back  to  mine — this  bosom  throbs 
Like  heaven's  Artemis  unto  her  own! 

[Kisses  her] 

O  kiss  that  holds  the  mornings  of  all  time, 
And  dewy  seasons  of  the  ungathered  rose, 
Plant  once  again  thy  summer  on  my  lips ! 

Ara.  How  dear  is  death  that  kisses  with  such  breath ! 
Thine  eyes  are  seas  where  sighing  ardors  blow 
Love's  argosies  from  island  bowers  of  dream 
Into  my  heart.     Save  me,  Aristocles! 


THE    SIEGE  311 

O  me,  I'm  netted  in  these  golden  curls 
With  web  as  sure  as  that  the  crafty  god 
Once  wove  round  Aphrodite's  blushing  bed 
And  trapped  great  Ares,  sport  for  gazing  heaven! 
O,  I  am  lost!     [Casts  him  off] 

Away!   away!     Nor  may 
My  lips  move  more  on  earth  but  in  a  prayer 
To  cleanse  this  moment's  madness  from  our  souls! 

Aris.  Wouldst  leave  me  now  to  death? 

Am.  Ay,  unto  death, 

Lest  Truth  and  Honor  die!    Thy  way's  not  mine. 
My  aspen  soul  would  shake  its  house  of  fear, 
Imagine  thunder  in  the  bee's  soft  hum, 
And  mountain-rocking  winds  in  harmless  air 
That  would  not  move  the  purple  down  of  clouds. 
To  so  great  compass  now  my  horror  grows 
That  I  myself  seem  Chaos.     'Tis  as  I  stood 
'Mong  heaps  of  ruined  destinies  with  life 
Still  mourning  in  them.     I  am  still  for  fear 
Another  world  will  crumble  as  I  stir. 

Aris.  Move,  Aratea!     Speak! 

Am.  Dost  hear  that  sound? 

It  is  the  rustle  of  tear-dropping  gods 
Who  gather  all  the  golden  virtues  up 
Vouchsafed  to  earth  and  trampled  low  by  man. 
See  how  they  rise  with  their  immortal  store, 
A  moving  radiance  like  the  march  of  light, 
And  leave  us  dark  for  want  of  what  they  bear? 
Far,  far  till  stars  must  upward  look  to  see — 
A  sapphire  trail  through  the  ethereal  rose! 
Now — earth  and  darkness — and  you  call  it  love! 

[Sinks  dowri\ 

Aris.  [Lifting  Jier]  Fair  soul,  be  mortal  yet! 

Am.  [Going  from  him]  Who  leaps  for  stars 

Must  fall  a  million  leagues  too  short,  or  else 


312  THE    SIEGE 

Take  vantage  not  of  earth.     [Goes  to  curtains] 

Farewell— till  death. 

Aris.   'Twill  not  be  long  to  wait.     Thou  canst  not  live 
In  Dion's  arms. 

Am.  Nor  thine.     As  well  to  hope 

The  air-winged  seed  will  root  in  vacancy, 
And  high  mid-nothing  hang  with  lobed  bloom, 
As  that  the  rose  of  love  will  flower  from 
The  wreck  of  men  and  gods. 

[He  kneels  and  kisses  her  robe.     She  goes  out] 

Aris.  Before  I  die 

I've  touched  divinity. 

[As  he  rises  a  slave  rushes  in,  rear,  and  kneels] 

Slave.  My  lord ! 

Aris.  You  serve 

Lord  Heraclides,  do  you  not? 

Slave.  I  do, 

And  know  his  heart — his  traitor  heart. 

Aris.  Speak,  man. 

Slave.  You  love  the  noble  Dion? 

Aris.  [Starts]  Dion?    Ay, 

I  love  him  well. 

Slave.  Sir,  Heraclides  comes 

To  slay  him.     Dion,  the  good !    But  you  will  save  him ! 
^Egisthus  and  Callorus  aid  my  master. 
They're  bringing  Dion  here. 

Aris.  Here?     Haste!      Bring  you 

Ocrastes  and  Calippus!    Freedom!    Go! 

[Slave  runs  out.  Aristocles  steps  back  unseen  as  Dion, 
Heraclides,  ^gisthus  and  Callorus  enter.  The  slave 
running  out  meets  them] 

Her.  What  do  you,  sirrah? 

[  The  slave  runs  by  without  answer] 

Go!    You'll  not  outrun 
The  hangman! 


THE    SIEGE  313 

[sEgisthus  and  Callorus  keep  in  rear  of  Heraclides, 
who  walks  with  Dion] 

&g.  [To  Callorus]  We're  betrayed. 

Callo.  [To  Heraclides]    Do  not  delay 
The  blow. 

Her.  [To  Dion]  You  like  our  plan,  my  lord? 

JEg.  \To  Heraclides]  Strike  now. 

Dion.  'Tis  balm  to  Syracuse.     Your  hand  upon  it, 
And  pardon  me  my  left. 

Her.  With  all  my  heart ! 

[Stabs  at  Dion,  whose  sword  arm  is  still  in  bandage.  Aris- 
tocles,  watching,  springs  out  and  knocks  the  weapon 
aside.  Heraclides  engages  with  him.  Callorus  rushes 
at  Dion,  who  has  loosened  his  right  arm,  and  his  foe, 
meeting  unexpected  defence,  is  slain.  As  Callorus  falls, 
JEgisthus  strikes  at  Dion  and  disarms  him,  sending  his 
weapon  against  the  curtains,  left.  Dion,  unarmed  and 
suffering,  falls  back.  Aristocles  presses  before  Dion, 
fighting  desperately  with  Heraclides  and  ^Eguthus. 
Aratea  appears  at  curtains] 

Ara.  [Taking  up  Dion's  -weapon]     O  heart  of  Mars, 
beat  here! 

[She  advances  suddenly  and  draws  upon  sEgisthus,  who 
falls  back  in  momentary  astonishment,  and  Aristocles, 
relieved,  slays  Heraclides.  Ocrastcs  and  Calippus  rush 
in  rear,  folloived  by  guards  and  slaves.  Theano  and 
women,  enter  left.  JEgisthus  kneels  and  surrenders  his 
sword  to  Aratea] 

Cal.  No  mercy  now! 

[To  guards]  To  prison  with  /Egisthus! 

[Guards  lead  off  sEgisthus] 

Oc.  Dion!     Safe? 

Dion.  [Rising]  My  wife — and  friend — can  tell  you. 
Ask  of  them. 

Oc.  [Picking  up  bandage]  My  lord,  your  scarf. 


314  THE    SIEGE 

Dion.  Let  't  be,  my  son.     Let  't  be. 

I  shall  not  need  it  any  more. 

Oc.  O  joy, 

My  lord! 

Cat.  And  joy  for  Heraclides'  death! 

Aris.  Poor  man!     His  flattery  so  soon  found  friends 
That  he  himself  was  caught  by  it,  and  thought 
To  gain  a  crown  by  Dion's  death.     E'en  while 
They  talked — O  ne'er  was  friendly  speech  so  punctured— 
His  sword  was  out  and  aimed  at  Dion's  bosom. 

Oc.  Your  blade  is  purple,  but  it  should  be  black, 
So  vile  his  blood!  [Dion  sinks  to  a  seat] 

Col.  My  lord! 

Oc.  Your  wound !    He  bleeds ! 

O  see !    This  stream  is  gushing  as  'twould  fill 
An  ocean.     Help!    A  surgeon! 

Dion.  Nay,  too  late. 

Olympus'  power  alone  is  potent  here. 
There's  not  enough  of  life  in  me  to  wish 
For  life. 

Ara.     O,  Dion! 

Dion.  Kneel  here,  my  wife. 

[Aratea  kneels  at  Dion's  side] 

And  you, 
Aristocles,  come  close  to  me. 

[Aristocles  kneels  on  the  other  side  of  Dion] 

Two  faces 

Where  more  of  heaven  is  writ  than  I  have  seen 
In  all  the  world  beside.     Ay,  ye  will  pair 
Like  twin  divinities,  and  haply  by 
The  sweet  conjunction  of  your  beauteous  stars 
Make  a  new  influence  in  the  skies  may  draw 
The  world  to  heaven. 

.  .  .  Ocrastes,  son,  on  you 
Now  falls  the  heavy  weight  of  government. 


THE    SIEGE  315 

.  .  .  Farewell,  all  hearts.     My  way  is  new  and  long, 
And  strange  may  be  the  fortunes  of  my  shade, 
But  somewhere  I  shall  lay  me  down  in  peace, 
For  death's  unmeasured  sea  must  own  a  strand, 
And  e'en  eternity  beat  to  a  shore. 

[Dies.     Curtain] 


THE 

UNIVERSITY 

OF 


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